The Job

The Stranger

Karim Robinson stirred a bowl of crab soup, occasionally taking a sip from it with a stainless silver spoon. He watched the soup turn, clockwise then anti-clockwise, following his spoon obediently. He always looked forward to eating here.

The chatter belonging to north of two hundred guests in the ballroom blended into blissful background noise, and Robinson breathed in deeply as he concentrated on his starter. Then he heard a crackling in his left ear.

“Rob-” a voice said, interrupted by static. “Robins- Karim Ro-” the static scrambled the voice. He tapped his earpiece twice, and the voice became clear.

“Karim, are you there?” Tamara Stone asked in a hurried whisper.

“Yeah, I’m eating,” he replied quietly.

“Have you got eyes on Larsson yet?”

“He’s on the fifth table from the south exit, on the left. Dark grey suit, peach tie. And the little moustache that might suggest a background in eighties por-”

“Got him.” She paused for a moment, before asking; “How’s your soup?”

“Great, I’m taking a container back with me.”

“You have a container?”

“It’s in your bag, if you could fill it up that would be lovely.”

“Right, well, Domino has my bag so-”

Karim shook his head, slightly dispirited. “Figures. What’s she eating, then?”

“I dunno, I think it’s- yeah, it’s salad.”

He scowled, and turned the earpiece off, before taking another sip of the crab soup that he’d apparently only be having once tonight.

…

Stone tapped her ear, but heard nothing more from Robinson. She shook her head, and spoke again; “D’you hear that, Cal?”

“Yep, pornstache, got him,” he said, a small smile hidden in his voice.

Stone sighed wearily. “His name is Larsson. Can you please just try to be professional tonight? It’s my first assignment as captain so if you misbehave I’ll-”

“Yeah, okay, Larsson. Peach tie, I can see him.”

“Good, now get close enough to tag him, and keep eyes on him until he leaves.”

“Right. Karim, are you still here?”

There was a faint burst of static, followed by; “Yep.”

“Have you tried the breadsticks?”

“Yeah, they’re dry as- Jesus Christ, look,” Karim whispered suddenly.

“That’s an odd comparison,” Cal muttered.

 Tamara got up from her table and turned quickly, looking for whatever Karim had just seen. Amongst the numerous diners and waiters, she scanned faces and bodies for anything out of place. “What?” she said quietly. “What is it?”

“Look who just walked in,” Karim said lowly.

She looked to the main set of doors. There were three men and two women, all well dressed and smiling, holding wine glasses and chatting idly. Near them were two waiters, wheeling a cart draped in white cloth towards the kitchen. Other than that, Tamara was still in the dark.

“I don’t see anyone.”

“Look, he’s moving quickly. Shit, he’s walking towards Larsson.”

Her eyes found the person rapidly striding towards the door at the back of the hall. In the few seconds she had spent with her eyes lingering at the door, she had completely missed him, but he was now only meters from the person she was here to capture. Then she caught site of the stranger’s face.

…

Domino stayed silent, her face mostly hidden behind a book, but her eyes firmly locked on the man walking towards Larsson. Her earpiece was turned down low, covered by dark curly hair that hung in a fringe to her eyebrows. Tamara’s voice told her she was nearest to him, and that she should get ready to intervene should anything happen.

She put the book down slowly, covering the small salad on her plate. The man had slowed down, and was now walking directly behind him. He came to a stop at the next table on, and after running his eyes over Larsson, he sat at an empty place and spoke to himself.

“He’s on an earpiece, can you get in on it?” Domino said quietly, watching the man carefully.

There was a short silence. Then Cal said; “It’s encrypted.”

“Is ours?” Karim asked.

There was a longer silence.

“Cal you encrypted our line, didn’t you?” Tamara said urgently. “It was literally the only thing you had to do for hours.”

“Shit, switch off,” was Cal’s short reply.

Domino took her earpiece out and dropped it in a glass of water. She pretended to take a sip, stood up and emptied the glass in a rubbish bin, before taking her seat again. Without the voices in her ear, she would have to improvise.

…

Karim finished his soup, and eyed the empty bowl wistfully. A man in a dark suit walked nonchalantly behind him, and as he passed, the man opened his palm. In it was an earpiece. Karim shook his hand, placing his own earpiece in with the man’s, who continued walked without a word.

Karim stood up, and searched the room for Tamara. He found her table, and waited for her to make eye contact. When she did, he motioned towards the front entrance. She got up, and they worked between the tables towards the doors.

“Okay, don’t panic,” he said instantly.

“What the fuck is going on?” she demanded, her eyes flashing dangerously.

“I don’t know, it’s your assignment Tamara, did you read the file properly?”

“Yeah, there wasn’t any mention of him,” she said, reaching into her bag. “Look, I’ve got it here.”

Tamara handed the file to Karim, who opened and scanned it quickly.

“‘Jak Larsson is a freelancer, but he is currently working as an operative for a Scandinavian espionage team. He is also a dangerous assassin, and intelligence obtained by our specialists indicate that he is preparing to go on the offensive. Your objective is to tag Larsson, trail him to his rendezvous point and neutralize him. If possible, also neutralize his confidant.’ So this bloke is-”

“Definitely not his confidant.”

“Larsson’s a freelance assassin, he could be working with anyone,” Karim reasoned. “Including this person- what’s his name, Gateaux?”

Tamara stared at him.

“Girgis, Girgis Azoulay,” she paused. “Gateaux’s on the menu?”

Karim frowned, then grimaced.

“No, fruit salad.”

“Shame. I’ll go find Cal, you keep eyes on Domino and Girgis,” she instructed.

Karim nodded, and weaved his way back to his table. The empty bowl of soup had been replaced by a steak. He smiled and picked up a knife and fork, keeping his eyes trained firmly on Larsson and the next course.

…

Cal discarded the earpieces, and walked to the bar on the side of the hall. From here, he could see Larsson, Karim and Domino from ten meters away. He ordered a piña colada, but quickly changed to a glass of water as he saw Tamara approach.

“What’s going on?” he asked, noting the intensity of Tamara’s expression. “Is that Girgis who just came in?”

She nodded, and requested a double whiskey from the barman. Cal stared for a second, then asked for his piña colada.

“He doesn’t seem to be doing anything, so for now we proceed as planned,” she said, before taking a large gulp of the amber liquid.

The barman handed him a tall glass, and he took a sip through the straw. He looked at the straw for a second, before shaking his head and taking it out. Tamara took another gulp, sending the whiskey down with ease, and Cal, trying to do the same, gave his shirt half a mouthful of rum and fruit juice.

Tamara glared at him.

“Don’t you have any more ear pieces?”

“Yeah, in the van,” he replied, dabbing at the stain with a napkin. “I’ll get them now, but it’ll take a few minutes to encrypt them.”

“Good. Clean that up while you’re there,” she said, looking disdainfully at him.

Cal set his drink down and left the hall. Searching the car park for the van, he pulled the keys out of his pocket and jogged to the white vehicle he had parked, thankfully, only a few feet away.

…

Domino kept her eyes on Larsson from behind her book, observing silently. Every so often, her eyes would flicker to Girgis, who would sit at his table, either talking into his earpiece or scanning the crowd of tables.

A few feet away, Karim watched Girgis with more attention. He had no way of discreetly contacting anyone, and as such, was feeling precarious. His priority, and he was sure Tamara would agree, was their own safety, and he would not compromise that for anything.

Girgis said something into the earpiece, then he frowned to himself, and his eyes found Karim’s.

Then they found Domino’s.

He got up, and reached into his jacket.

…

Cal dug through a box of technical equipment in the back of the white van until he found four replacement earpieces. They were in less than perfect condition, but they worked. He plugged each of them into a small black hub, and connected it to a laptop. He clicked the mouse pad a few times, and waited.

As the loading bar on the screen slowly filled, he reached over to the front seat and grabbed a spare shirt. He kept an eye on the monitor as he unbuttoned his shirt, tossed it on the floor and put on the spare. The loading bar was at ten percent.

As he did the last button, he felt his phone buzz. He took it out, and checked the message. It was from Tamara, and it read: “Come back quick”. He frowned, and looked at the screen. The bar was at twenty percent.

He deliberated; their phones weren’t encrypted, which meant it was desperate. The earpieces would take at least five minutes. He stood still for a few moments, then opened the back doors of the van.

…

Karim got out of his chair and walked quickly towards Girgis, whose hand was pulling a small gun out of his pocket. He made up the ground and was able to obstruct Girgis from Larsson’s view, should he turn around. Karim leaned in close to Girgis, and spoke quietly.

“Put it away, let’s talk outside.”

Girgis eyed him suspiciously for a moment, but slid the gun back into his jacket. Karim nodded towards the back doors, and waited for Girgis to lead the way. They walked slowly towards the exit, and Karim directed him to the car park.

“What are you doing here?” he asked Girgis.

Girgis looked around and spotted a white van. He smiled slightly as he saw Cal standing outside it, reading something from his phone before going back into the vehicle.

“Why don’t you take a guess, my friend?” Girgis replied, taking a few steps away from the car park, still watching the white van.

Karim followed his eyes, and looked at the van, before looking back to Girgis, who had now taken several steps back from the area. He paused for a moment, then ran towards the van, screaming.

…

Larsson stood up from his chair, brushed a few crumbs off his suit and smiled at his dinner guests.

“I’ll join you soon, I have something to take care of just now.”

Domino looked at Tamara, who nodded, and waited for Larsson to take a few steps towards the front doors before getting to her feet. She followed him silently, before checking again on Tamara’s position. She had covered the back exit; Larsson was all hers.

He got to the doors, thanked a doorman, and went outside, and Domino, as she reached the doors, pretended to tie a shoelace as she watched Larsson take a general direction into the opening beyond the building. Then, from the other side of the building, muffled but still deafening, she heard an explosion.

…

Karim froze, deafened. He lost his balance, and stared, blearily and unfocused, at the ball of flames engulfing the van.

The van with Cal inside.

As the reality reverbed in his head, he shook his head, and remembered Tamara and Domino, who were both in the hall. Were they okay?

Girgis. Karim looked around, but he had disappeared.

Larsson. Did he know about this?

Cal. He was dead.

The thought echoed chillingly, and Karim stuttered, eyes peeling in the brightness of the blazing vehicle.

…

Larsson heard the explosion, and looked back at the hall. He considered investigating, but his confidant would be waiting for him.

He took a breath, and a moment to decide, then, as curiosity got the better of him, he walked back into the hall.

Everyone had gathered at the back doors, to see the source of the explosion. He walked towards them, waiting to see what would emerge.

…

As soon as Domino heard the blast, she had ditched Larsson and ran towards the back doors, and as she pushed through the gathering crowd she found Tamara. They looked at each other, and ran towards the car park.

 The first thing they saw was the blaze surrounding their van. In front of it was Karim, standing glued to the ground.

They ran to him, and as Tamara noticed Cal’s absence, she said, barely audibly; “No.”

Domino looked at the van, then at Karim. Then her eyes, sharper than Karim’s and Tamara’s, found a shadow stalking in the distance. She ran after it.

Any words Karim may have had were caught in his throat, unable to escape. Tamara looked at him, tears forming in the corners of her eyes.

…

Domino, stealthy as she was, soon caught up to Girgis, sneaking behind him as he paced quickly down the street. His footsteps were loud, and masked her silent treading.

Then, in a poor lack of judgement, she stepped on a manhole lid.

It made a faint clank, and not wanting to risk anything, she turned to hide in an alleyway. Girgis’ footsteps stopped. Then they started again, becoming louder, closer.

As he turned the corner, Domino hooked her right arm around his neck, and his left on the back of his head.

She twisted in one jerking motion, and the crack echoed down the empty alley.

…

Karim looked back towards the hall, his thoughts becoming slightly clearer.

He saw Larsson. He looked back at Tamara, and they both ran towards him. As Larsson took notice of them, he turned sharply and ran through the hall.

They followed him, and they were faster. As they reached him, he stopped running, and turned to face them.

“I don’t know. I promise, I don’t know,” he pleaded, and as Karim looked at Tamara hopelessly, he seized his chance to run again. He would be going far away, and they had no means of transport. They turned and walked back to the car park.

The Fortune Teller

The Fortune Teller

Lady Larissa packed her travel suitcase quickly, eager to be at the airport by eleven that night. Her plane left at one in the morning, and she was not in any mood to spend one more night in the city. She neatly arranged her hypno-wheel, a box with two old and worn decks of ‘mystical’ playing cards, her Ouija board and a number of small trinkets in the leather bag, before piling in her clothes and toiletries. Larissa zipped the bag shut, hoisted it onto its wheels and set it by the door.

She gathered her wallet, keys and phone, and shoved them in her coat pockets. She took a deep breath and a last look in the dresser mirror. She swept her dark fringe from her bright hazel eyes, and tied back her freshly dyed, blonde ponytail, letting it drape down her left shoulder.

Larissa then grabbed the suitcase and wheeled it out of the small motel room. She checked out quickly, and walked briskly to the almost pitch black car park.

The tarmac outside was slick with ice, and the small patches of grass between parking bays were silver with dew; a small fox slunk from behind a car, its paws crunching softly on the frost; streetlights half-heartedly perforated the darkness with dim yellow circles every twenty meters along the adjacent road.

She scanned around for her small hatchback, and found it after clicking the unlock button on her key, unwilling to expose her hands to the cold until she was in the car.

Her shoes made a scurrying sound as they scraped along the icy tarmac. Her breath came out steamy.

When she reached the car, she tried to open the driver’s door, but it wouldn’t budge.

She pulled again, and heard the crunching sound of breaking ice.

She wrenched harder. It stayed shut.

She felt a hand on her back, forcing her to turn around.

Lady Larissa’s breath caught in her throat. Then she stared, eyes glassy and unfocused at the person in front of her.

The person counted down from three, before whispering quietly in her ear, snapping their fingers and vanishing into the shadows.

Larissa stared dozily at the space in front of her, before blinking, and slowly climbing into her car.

…

I picked up the phone after the second ring, and heard Jean’s voice on the other end.

“Be here for nine, or so. Bring wine, and something to do while we wait for Rob,” she said, sounding busy.

“Like what?” I asked.

“I don’t know, a board game or something,” she said impatiently. “I’ll be cooking and you’ll need to entertain Alistair.”

“He’s three, Jean. Don’t you have any toys?”

“I do, but he’s looking forward to seeing you.”

“Fine, I’ll find something. Can he do taxes yet, or-”

“Theodore!” she hissed, before hanging up.

I put the phone back in my pocket, grabbed my keys, and wallet from the counter and rummaged through a shelf for something that might entertain a young child. Sifting through a number of pens, paperclips and key chains, I found a small book titled Funny Lines and Silly Rhymes. Perfect.

On the way out, I spotted a deck of cards on the coffee table next to the bottle of wine I had bought for Jean and Rob. I pocketed them, grabbed the bottle and walked out of the front door. As I closed it behind me, my coat tail caught in the lock. I pulled it hard, and it tore.

“Shit,” I muttered, reaching inside a coat pocket for my keys. My index finger jabbed into a key pointing straight up, and I swore again. I clutched the keys tightly, careful to avoid any more sharp edges, and pulled them out.

I tried to unlock the door, but the coattail was obstructing the bolt. I sighed heavily, and pulled the coat hard. It ripped apart, and the door swung open, leaving the torn piece of material to drop innocently to the floor. I glared at it, before shutting the door and trudging downstairs.

On my way to Jean’s, I came to twelve red lights in a row. I drove over something sharp, drifted ever so little above the speed limit and set off a camera flash, and flattened a dead rabbit. I ran out of petrol twenty feet from Jean’s car park.

I eventually climbed the five flights of stairs to their flat, since the lift was out of order, and knocked for a few minutes, because Jean was deaf from cooking and Alistair was watching television.

When the door eventually opened, Jean had her phone between her head and her shoulder, and was motioning me in, as if I had been keeping her waiting. I stepped inside to see smoke coming from the kitchen; something was burning. She swore loudly, and whoever she was on the phone to said, “Excuse me?”

She rushed to the stove, apologizing profusely as she tended to the cooking pot. I followed her through the hallway, and entered the living room through an archway opposite a large mirror. There was a three-seater couch and a small coffee table in front of the television. I sat on the couch next to Alistair, who turned to me for a high five. I held my hand out, and he managed to swipe his arm straight into my face. He fell on his back, giggling.

“How you doing, little man?” I asked, pulling him up.

“Good, Uncle Theodore, I watched a secret Asian movie today!” he said excitedly. “It was called ‘Casino Roll’!”

He turned back to the television.

“I’m watching cartoons now. What’s your favourite cartoon, Uncle Theodore?”

“I like Bugs Bunny, you know the rabbit?” I grinned, remembering my childhood hero.

“He’s on now, I think,” he said, leaping to get the remote from the coffee table.

As he changed the channel, Bugs appeared on the screen, dealing cards with an unsuspecting Daffy Duck, which reminded me.

“I bought something you might like, Alistair, if you liked Casino Royale,” I said, pulling the deck of cards out of my pocket. The packet came loose, and the cards spilled out over the sofa. When Alistair saw them he yelled in delight and began gathering up the cards. I let him play with them, and walked to the kitchen, where Jean was preparing a salad.

“Good evening old sister of mine,” I boomed out suddenly, surprising her enough that she dropped the kitchen knife. After the trip here, I’d have put money on it landing in her foot. It did, but with the handle.

“Ah, for god’s sakes- Theodore, set the table please,” she picked it up, and continued chopping.

“Nice to see you too. How goes it?” I said cheerily, taking plates and glasses out of a cupboard.

“It goes well, you?” she replied, not looking up from the chopping board.

“Good, where’s Rob?”

“He’s meeting with a new client, had to stay late,” she turned around from the salad to face me. “He’ll be here in twenty or so minutes, hopefully.”

I nodded, and finished laying the table, before excusing myself to the bathroom.

…

Robert locked up his office door, and walked through to the foyer of the building. After a long day dealing with a rather peculiar client, he was looking forward to getting home. The car was parked a while away, so he left quickly. As he walked by the bus stop, he saw the client he had finished speaking to only five minutes earlier. She looked up at him, and smiled. He stopped, and asked her if she needed a lift to the station.

She said; “Yes, that would be kind of you,” with the strange, almost robotic voice she had spoken with during their meeting. She brushed her fringe out of her eyes, and pulled back her ponytail, before smiling again.

…

I walked back from the bathroom, passing a large mirror in the hallway, just opposite the living room. In the reflection I could see Alistair throwing the playing cards around on the floor. I went in to tell him off.

There was no one in the room.

I frowned, and looked back at the mirror. My reflection had disappeared.

I moved towards the mirror that reflected the hallway and the lounge. Alistair was still playing with the cards. I turned away from the mirror, and I was alone again.

In the mirror, Jean had walked into the room. She asked Alistair where I was, and he said he didn’t know. She sighed, picked up all of the playing cards, and walked into the hallway. I turned, and I was still alone.

I yelled, “Jean!” but she ignored me as she walked passed.

…

Alistair sat on the couch, and stared at Elmer Fudd on the television. He yawned, and changed the channel on the remote. The picture scrambled, and went static. Alistair clicked the remote again, but the static remained.

He got off the couch, and spotted a couple of small white rectangles on the rug. His mum had missed two of the cards! He picked them up and examined them.

The first card had a strange drawing on it. It was a young woman, with pale skin, and dark hair covering her eyes. She was wearing a piece of cloth across the top of her head, but had long blonde hair tied in a plait down her left shoulder. Her eyes were wide and scary.

 The second card had Uncle Theodore on it, but he was standing behind a window.

Alistair looked at both of the cards for a few seconds. Suddenly, he threw them both as far as he could. They flew into the hallway, and he chased happily after them. As he picked them up, he looked into the mirror, and saw Uncle Theodore.

…

Alistair stopped in front of the mirror. He could see me, but he couldn’t hear me screaming. He stared at me in wonder, then looked at one of the playing cards he was holding. He showed it to me.

Jean was on the card, but her eyes were rolled back.

I screamed at him, but as he looked at me, his eyes turned wide with fear. His mouth opened, but nothing came out.

I tried to reach through the mirror.

 I pushed into it.

 I punched it.

…

Jean heard the doorbell ring, and turned on her heels to walk back to the kitchen. As she came to the hallway, she saw Alistair staring at the mirror, two playing cards on the floor. From where she was standing, she could see the picture on one of the cards. It was Rob, lying down on concrete, in a pool of blood. His lower half was under a car. She froze, and stared at Alistair. He was standing with his forehead pressing into the mirror, a pained look on his face.

…

I watched as Jean pulled Alistair away from the mirror and into the kitchen. His eyes never left mine as he wailed. They both disappeared around the corner, and I punched the glass in front of me again in frustration. Jean came back, and walked to the front door. I could just about see her, but whoever was at the front door was hidden from view. Jean stepped back, and let the person in.

 It was Rob, but something was wrong. He looked panicked, as he walked into the hallway, followed shortly after by a young woman. Jean trailed behind them, clearly mortified.

As the woman passed the mirror, she looked directly at me, and winked. Her face was familiar. Very familiar. She had long blonde hair, draped across her shoulders, but her fringe was black. Her eyes were hazel, and smoky. Then it clicked.

The playing cards. She had sold them to me. I yelled, but no one heard me.

…

Alistair sat in the kitchen, next to his mother and father. They were being odd, he thought. They looked scared. The woman from the card was in the kitchen too, and she was holding the rest of the cards. She was counting them, but she wasn’t saying anything.

Then she spotted the two cards in the hallway, and walked over to pick them up. She looked into the mirror as she passed. Alistair wondered if she could see Uncle Theodore too. She acted like she could; she was telling him to be quiet, and showing him the cards. She must have wanted them really badly.

Alistair was feeling sleepy, and when he blinked, the woman had disappeared, and Uncle Theodore was yelling at the mirror.

…

I yelled at the woman in the mirror, and she just smiled at me. Then I heard Alistair say, “Uncle Theodore, there you are!”

Jean stared, shocked and confused as I turned around and ran into the kitchen. She, Alistair and Rob were all there, with me. I turned back to the mirror, and the woman held up the deck of cards. She winked at me, tucked them in her pocket and walked away.

Freedom

Ledley had told me, over the last cigarette we’d shared, that the first breath of fresh air was the best. When the freedom is so new and magical, you couldn’t possibly see a downside. The world is your oyster, and you’re a starved customer at a seafood restaurant.

He also told me that the feeling didn’t last for long. The walk from the prison to the bus stop was a long one, over grey pavestones that seemed to get longer and longer as you contemplate how to get your life back on track when it takes a five year stop at Cherry Hill Low-Security Prison.

The air became noticeably different to Cherry Hill’s own complex cocktail of crime and conviction; I felt like a stranger, breathing in clean and, figuratively, harmless air. People were smiling, and talking about normal things like- well, non-prison things. No one looked at me twice, with invisible grudges formed from years of imprisonment.

There was a café on the way to the bus stop, and for my empty stomach and the seven pounds jingling in my pockets, it was a dim and greasy beacon of light. This café, Ledley had said, had served many an ex-convict from Cherry Hill; he had eaten there twice himself. He had recommended the full English. Ledley normally prepared himself with a ten pound note, pre-potential arrest, just so he had something to look forward to when he got out.

The door rung a small bell as I opened it, and a young man on the till looked up and watched me as I walked in. His nametag read ‘Gary’. I asked for two slices of toast and a cup of tea, and Gary told me it would be ready in five minutes, that I should take a seat at the empty booth by the window. He spoke with the familiarity one develops when one becomes accustomed to the nature of newly released convicts. I handed over two of the seven pounds, went to sit down, and made small rips in a napkin with my restless hands as I waited. 

The café wasn’t empty; every table now had at least one person sat down, either waiting for, enjoying or struggling to pre-digest their own plates of greasy meat and carbohydrates. I wondered briefly how many of them had made their own stupid mistakes in their lives, and how many of them had paid for it with a spell at Cherry Hill. Hopefully none; were it not for my aching hunger, and Ledley’s review, I would be on the bus far, far away by now. I wanted to leave Cherry Hill and never look back. I wanted to try and enjoy the freedom that was growing more and more daunting.

Gary brought over my tea, and told me the toast would be here in a moment. As he walked back to the till, the bell rung and the door opened. A woman wearing a light, flowing summery dress entered, and seemed to illuminate the grimy café. She turned her head, looking for an empty table that wasn’t there. Her bright, blue eyes swept over the rows of customers and eventually came to my booth. In my sudden light-headedness at seeing someone so radiant after five years amongst low security prisoners, I stood up slightly and waved at her.

I felt stupid the moment I left my chair, but it didn’t seem to matter. She raised an eyebrow at me; erm, who are you? But then, she smiled, and walked over. I stared at her as she sat down, set her small backpack beside her, and made herself comfortable. She grinned brightly at me. I tried to say hello, but a stutter might have been impressive at that point.

“You have that look about you,” she leaned in. “That, fuck me, the world is scary look. Cherry Hill, I take it?”

She was American. Her accent had a mild but recognizable southern drawl. I nodded. She nodded back knowingly.

“What did you do? Shoplifting? Dealing? Can’t have been that bad, anyway,” she said casually. She seemed to have an energy about her, a sort of openness that had me slightly uneasy.

“A few things,” I reply quietly, reluctant to dive into such a conversation with her so soon.

“It’s okay,” she said, smiling again. She had a wonderful smile. “You don’t need to be embarrassed.”

I wasn’t embarrassed.

“People do stupid things all the time,” she said.

 “I’m not em-”

“I mean,” she continued. “You’re out, right? D’you know what you’re gonna do now? Most people seemed to just drift around or…”

She kept on talking freely, and for each question she asked she seemed to answer it with a story or another question before I could even begin. I watched her as she talked, hearing but only partly listening. Her eyes were on mine, alive with joy at recounting grim stories of ex-cons being found dead and/or mutilated. For one reason or another, I was rather enjoying her discourse.

“…But I’m sure that won’t happen to you. Your toast is getting cold, by the way,” she added, nodding at my half eaten slice.

“Yeah,” I said, quite lamely. I think she was waiting for me to say more. “So, do you normally, like, just have lunch with ex-cons?”

She raised an eyebrow again. It arched cutely above her crystal eyes.

“Do you normally stand up and wave at strangers for lunch?”

My stomach lurched slightly. I didn’t reply; I wasn’t sure exactly what to say. She looked at me for a second, then grinned, and started laughing again. I breathed out in relief.

“Yeah,” I said again, chuckling awkwardly. “Erm, I’m not sure why I did that.”

“Well, do you have a plan? Or are you gonna be a drifter?”

I paused, considering the question. I didn’t really have a plan at all; I had thought endlessly about what I would do on this day for five years, but it all seemed like coldly distant conjecture now. The world seemed so overbearing, like a huge sky, with people soaring around at liberty. I felt like I’d forgotten how to fly, and I was sitting on the ground, watching everyone and feeling lost.

“I don’t,” I admitted, bowing my head dejectedly. “Have a plan, I mean. I could call someone but I don’t know who to call.”

“Family? Friends?” she enquired, frowning slightly.

“None close by, but I know a couple of people in the next town,” I replied, unable to hide the slight bitterness in my voice, thinking of the two people who had gotten away with their wings intact, where he hadn’t been so lucky.

“Well, you think about calling them,” she smiled warmly, standing up. “I’m gonna go use the ladies’ room.”

 I nodded slowly. As she walked away, I weighed up my options. I didn’t want to call those two for help, but it would be difficult making any sort of start without a hand. I stirred my tea and watched the bubbles spin around. A job would be useful, but who hires ex-convicts?

I sighed. The nearest living family was my brother, who owned a small store a few hours from here. We hadn’t spoken in years. I felt even more lost. I started to think of the woman. She was beautiful, but she was so much more. She spoke and moved with such ease, and smiled and laughed without a care in the world. I longed to feel like that, but talking with her seemed to remind me how far off it was.

Sitting in my hot cell, on my uncomfortable bed, pictures of myself living outside the grey walls seemed to plaster my thoughts. For weeks on end I would sit up, unable to sleep, yearning to breathe in the sweet freedom of the world beyond bars. I yawned sleepily, and took another bite of cold toast.

She came out of the bathroom, and went to the till. I presumed she was ordering her own lunch, before she walked over and sat down at the booth with the same smile she had when she left.

“Thought about it anymore?” she asked.

I shook my head.

“Not really. I guess I’ll need to find a bank,” I said, sighing again. “I should call my parole officer soon, too.”

She nodded. She was remarkably comfortable to be around. I felt like I could tell her anything, and she would convince me that everything was alright. But it wasn’t alright, I thought grimly, regretting having to jump back into the world of living.

Gary brought over a plate of bacon and eggs, and set it down in front of her. His nametag was covered in a film of grease. As she tucked in, I looked at her, a thought suddenly occurring to me.

“I’m Alistair, by the way,” I offered her my hand. She set down her knife and fork, swallowed a mouthful off fried egg and took my hand. Her skin was soft and warm.

“Liberty Bell,” she smiled, holding on to my hand for a little longer than I had anticipated. She eventually withdrew and continued eating, but her eyes looked up at mine as her lips curled up again.

In my peripheral, through the window just behind Liberty, I saw a police car rolled into the car park. I shook my head slightly, still resentful of the law. I had committed crimes I was not proud of; admittedly due to the need for money, but the police had treated me like a cold blooded murderer. I had bruises for months, and they weren’t sustained whilst in Cherry Hill. The police walked by our window, and disappeared from view momentarily.

Liberty continued to eat her lunch. I decided to get to know her a little.

“So, what brings you to England, Liberty?” I enquired politely. She looked up, and paused before answering

“Well, I have a few relatives here and there, but I’m just travelling, you know?” she laughed, slightly nervously. The bell rang, and the door opened. Her eyes darted towards the door, and then suddenly focused intensely on her food.

“Oh, okay. So, where are you from originally?” I thought this was a perfectly normal question, but she seemed to withdraw herself. A man and a woman, both in police uniform, sat in the booth opposite ours, and began chatting pleasantly. Liberty looked out of the window.

“Er, I’m from Texas,” she said, staring out at the car park.

The policeman glanced at us, then again. He turned to the police woman and whispered something.

The silence between us became heavy.

The police woman glanced at me, then Liberty. Her eyes lingered on Liberty.

She started to breathe heavily, and as the two police officers stood up, she grabbed her bag.

What was happening? Liberty tried to run, but the police officers were quicker, and they arrested her right there. She looked apologetically, almost longingly at me, and for a moment, every instinct in me told me to grab my butter knife and drive it into one of her captors.

They read out a list of charges, ranging from theft and robbery, to arson and kidnapping. I stared at them, and the police man told me to fuck off. I breathed for a second, too stunned to move. He yelled at me to leave, and I ran, suddenly as lost as I had ever been.

Morales

The dark grey clouds were gathering slowly, ominously, above London. As they were usually prone to do, indeed, but more so recently as the days of winter edged ever closer. The fanfare of Hallowe’en had faded, from what little there was amongst the dreary Southern folk, into early November chills and showers. Crisp, brown leaves lay in hastily raked piles on the pavements, occasionally trodden on by the morning’s early risers.

The roads, at this hour, were beginning to fill with workers and parents alike, the ones who had set their alarms half an hour earlier to avoid the rush. The buses were shipping cargos of sleepy heads to stop after stop, and the smell of coffee and cigarettes wafted through the air as it blended with exhaust fumes and cheap aftershaves, the blue collar cocktail that was the standard to the senses. 

Small newsagent owners were opening their shutters to the early birds, supplying them with their morning newspaper and a friendly nod. School children bought packs of gum and sweets and crisps, for themselves and their friends, two at a time being the most the shop keeps would allow in at any one time, even with the unpredictable schedule of the school-rented double decker.

The sun pressed on in its gentle arc through the sky, reaching its late-morning position as the minimum wage workers clocked in and the school bells rang to signal the start of the day and the unemployed pressed the well-worn snooze button on their alarm clocks. The alarm clocks would pause for five minutes of heavenly silence, the limbo between slumber and wakefulness, before blaring its unforgiving siren again.

The sound pierced Michael Holland’s eardrums, and yielded a stir under the thin blanket as he stretched himself awake. As he strained his neck to look at the offending technology, checking the time to be nine thirty, he groaned and fell face first back into the pillow. Minutes later he was snoring, but the alarm clock sat patiently, continuing to ring without sympathetic regard for its cream-crackered clientele.

Some feet away from the near-corpselike state of the young man, another had taken a significantly more proactive approach to his wake-up call. Sitting up on a made bed, in the room adjacent to Michael’s, was the fresher faced form of Niamh Casterly. Through the thin walls, she could hear Michael’s alarm go off every morning, and so never bothered to set her own.

Michael, half conscious, heard her get out of bed, walk to the dividing wall and knock quietly, three times.

“Up?” she enquired, her voice muffled slightly but still as bright as ever.

“Getting there,” he called back tiredly. He slapped the alarm silent, and rolled out onto his feet, rubbing the remnants of his rudely interrupted inertia out of his steely grey eyes. As he opened his bedroom door and walked into the small living room, he yawned and stretched. Slowly, the plan for the day ahead trickled into his consciousness, and he took a deep breath.

“Game day, Holland,” Niamh said seriously as she came out of her door. She was right; today would be difficult. “Have you decided yet?”

“No,” he responded quietly. “You?”

She paused hesitantly, before looking directly at him. “Yes.”

Michael’s eyes widened, as he raised his head, suddenly very much awake.

“Shit. What’re you gonna do?”

“I think I’m gonna sell it.”

…

“It’s worth at least a thousand quid, Michael,” Niamh again looked at him, but this time there was desperation with the guilt. “I haven’t seen a number bigger than twelve in my account in months.”

“Yours doesn’t have so many strings attached, Nim, I’d sell it if I were you,” Michael sighed. He felt honest, saying that, which had felt like a strange relief from his own heavy conscience. A thousand pounds was a lot of money, to them, but Michael had a bigger dilemma. Niamh had found a buyer of an old piece of technical equipment she had from a job at a laboratory, a job that she was unfairly fired from. He had something a little more conflicting, but significantly more expensive.

“If they find out I nicked it, they’ll sue me for tons,” she protested.

He frowned. “So don’t sell it?”

“But it’s worth a thousand! And in all honesty, Michael, I don’t think Al’s really gonna do anything with the gun, god knows why but if he knew the first thing about firearms he would’ve slapped you in the face when you told him it was worth four thousand quid,” she laughed slightly. Evidently she was having no moral dilemma about screwing the company that screwed her.

“I just hope he doesn’t bloody implicate us in anything stupid he does,” Michael said bitterly.

“Aha, so you will sell it to him? Great, so, let’s pay rent for the next two-”

“Wait, hold on. I don’t know yet,” he interjected, stopping her before she got too far ahead of herself. “Don’t gun shops in America have waiting periods and background checks?”

“This isn’t exactly a legitimate transaction, Michael,” she shook her head. “Look, what else are you gonna do with it? If Damon finds out you nicked it from him, he’ll come after you. Better to pawn it off, surely?”

“Well, yeah, but if I go back to him, I could tell him I found it, or borrowed it or…” he trailed off, not quite sure where he was heading with this thread of thought.

“Yeah, let’s think of all the possible questions that raises,” she said, smirking. “Damon’s a twat, and we need the money, so-”

“Yeah, I know,” he said, sighing exasperatedly again. “But Al’s not much better.”

There was a short silence, before it was pierced by a loud ring, from Michael’s phone. He checked the screen, and his face drained of colour. Niamh noticed, and mouthed ‘Damon?’, and he nodded his head, before answering.

“Hello?”

“Holland. I’m coming over.” The phone beeped as he hung up. Michael turned to Niamh, then sprinted to the door, checking it was locked.

“Michael? What happened, is he here?” Niamh said worriedly, almost instinctively locking the windows.

“He said he’s coming, fuck. Think he knows?” Michael’s voice waivered slightly, before he remembered; he had the gun. “Shit, I have the gun. What do we do?”

“No idea, d’you think he has another gun?”

“Fuck if I know, Niamh. Shit, we can’t let him know we have the gun,” he said, running back to his room, frantically rummaging through the drawers until he found it. “What do we do?” he said again, breathing heavily.

Niamh looked at the gun, then at the front door, before frowning.

“Hide it, and when he comes over we’ll play innocent.”

…

“I need your help.”

Damon sat on our couch, ragged and tired, his eyes anxious. His hands were shaking as he held a mug of tea. Michael glanced at Niamh, who smirked again.

“With what, Damon?” Michael replied carefully.

“You can’t tell anyone, okay? No one.” He said it nervously but with assertion. It worried them both, as Niamh’s slight smile fell and Michael’s hands twitched nervously.

“What did you do?”

Damon paused, choosing his words seemingly quite carefully.

“I shot someone.”

No one said anything for a short while, as the words echoed in each of their ears. Niamh looked at Michael, her eyes wide with fear now. Damon had shot, potentially killed someone, and they had the smoking gun. Michael took a small breath and looked at him.

“Okay. Explain.”

“I shot someone. Just a bloke, I was supposed to kill him, and this man was gonna pay me, and I don’t know if he’s dead,” he said it all very quickly, almost rehearsed.

Michael considered the problem; Damon was coming to them for help, which was practically unheard of, yet he was sure this was not something he had intended to get involved in. Niamh looked at him again, her eyes searching his for a response. Would it be bad if he turned Damon away? If Michael sold the gun to Al, then he’d be susceptible to police investigation, and Michael would be rid of it.

“I also got rid of the gun, safely, but I don’t know if he saw me. The person I shot,” he added.

Michael frowned; was he blowing smoke out of his arse? Damon had no idea where the gun was. He had to get rid of him, now.

“No. Absolutely not,” Michael stood up, and said it firmly. “No fucking chance, Damon.”

Niamh caught on quickly. “You shouldn’t have told us, you stupid twat,” she almost yelled, before becoming aware of the high volume and turning slightly red.

Damon sighed, stood up, and placed his mug down. Michael thought silently, at least he didn’t smash it.

“Fine.” He walked to the front door, but Niamh called a question.

“Out of curiosity, who did you shoot?”

Michael groaned; so much for not being involved. Damon turned to face them.

“Ricky. Ricky Pollard.”

Niamh’s face drained, and Michael’s breath caught in his throat. As Damon shut the door behind him, Michael turned to her.

“Al, what was his brother’s name?”

She said the word silently, unable to summon her voice.

…

“This explains why Al wants the gun,” Niamh said, two cups of tea later.

“And why he’s willing to pay so much for it,” Michael replied, shaking his head. “Are we middlemen in a revenge plot?”

“I think so. If we sell Al the gun, then-“

“We pocket five thousand and he takes revenge on-“

“Damon, if we tell him who shot his brother.”

“Do we tell him that? We can’t rat Damon out, he’d be a dead man walking.”

“But if we don’t, then Al might take a few people down looking for him,” Niamh said, and the horrifying idea of more people dying at what could perceptively be seen as their hands seemed to hang in the air. Michael sipped from his cup of tea, and sighed.

“We could tell the police. Say we found the gun, thought we should take it before he did anything with it, found out what it was used for and went straight to them.”

There was an even longer silence.

“But the five thousand.”

“Four thousand,” he corrected her. “We still have one thousand from that dodgy thing you stole.”

“That would cover a month rent, and food for a while. Assuming we don’t get a job any time soon, which we probably won’t.”

Michael turned to her; “What do we do then?”

She shook her head; “I don’t know.”

…

Later that day, as the sun flirted with the horizon, the streetlights flickered on and headlights began to beam, Michael Holland and Niamh Casterly stood in their flat, holding a bag with five thousand pounds, wearing huge grins. Thirty miles or so away, Damon sat in a prison cell, and Al Pollard sat on his hands for what Michael and Niamh hoped would be the duration of Damon’s impending prison sentence.

“We did the right thing, didn’t we?” Michael asked her, smiling slightly.

“If Al stays put for twenty five years, perhaps. Ricky’s alive, anyways, and he’ll be alright.” Niamh replied

 “Al can bide his time,” Michael agreed. “Twenty five years is enough to stew, even if he has a gun. He hasn’t really got the balls to use it anyways.”

Niamh turned to him, concern in her eyes.

“We might’ve thought that about Damon, though.”

“Damon was desperate. Al’s just angry, but that’ll go when Ricky gets better. Hopefully.”

They looked at each other, their concern only slightly abetted. But the thought of financial security, for the near future at least, seemed to null the feeling slightly.