Fear of the Fathers (3 page)

“I think it's just you,” Davis replied. “I'm feeling a bit chilly myself. Maybe you're going through the menopause,” he chuckled.

Jennings ignored the comment and headed towards the other end of the long counter. He loosened his tie as he walked. His breathing became laboured. An invisible force bore down, suffocating him with a cloying cloak. The world started spinning around him. He stumbled and searched for the counter, but his legs had already buckled and he fell to the floor like a scarecrow. A fleeting vision entered his head; and then nothing.

Davis raced over to his stricken colleague. He knelt down and shook Jennings' arm. “Jennings! Are you alright? What the fuck's going on?” There was no response. He felt for a pulse and was relieved to find one. He shook him again, this time with more vigour. “Jennings! Wake up man!”

Jennings groaned and opened his eyes. The room had thankfully ceased to spin.

“What happened mate?” Davis asked earnestly.

Jennings sat up and shook his head. The fever had left him. “I've no idea Bob, I've never had anything like that happen to me before. I overheated, stumbled, and then…”

“And then what?” Davis pressed.

Jennings sprang to his feet. “The toilets! We've got to get to the toilets at the far end. I think Stone's in trouble.”

Without another word Jennings raced off, followed by a befuddled Davis who believed his partner to have gone off the rails.

Jennings slowed to a halt just before the entrance to the washroom. Pulling out his gun he signalled Davis to be quiet. Davis, still bemused, nodded and drew his own weapon. They silently sidled up to the wide arch. Jennings steadied his breath and cautiously poked his head round. There was a narrow aisle with a bank of cubicles on either side. At the far end was a urinal trough. All seemed quiet, and he was about to enter the convenience when his eyes fell upon something sticking out of a compartment on the far left. “Fuck,” he muttered, turning his head away.

“What is it?” whispered Davis.

“Stone's leg,” said Jennings. “It's sticking out of one of the cubicles. I think he's down.”

Davis sighed. “What about Appleby? Weren't they supposed to be paired up?”

“Yes,” Jennings nodded. “But all I can see is the one leg. I'll have to go in. Cover me.”

Jennings edged round into the tiled opening. He cringed as the stench of stale urine hit his nasal receptors. All was silent and there was no movement from Stone's protruding leg. He proceeded slowly checking each stall in turn, left then right. Behind him Davis moved his gun from side to side in nervous anticipation. A noise came from the urinals, and for a split second Jennings froze. Then, realizing that it was just the automatic flush, he carried on down towards the end booth.

Stone's bloody head was slumped against the toilet bowl, his dark hair matted above a crimson stream. Jennings reached down and felt his neck. The pulse was faint, but it was there. He signalled Davis for help.

“Looks like he's just hit his head,” said Davis.

Jennings put a finger to his lips and shook his head. He then carried on round towards the bank of wash basins on the left-hand wall. He turned the corner and froze.

In front of him, with an arm round Appleby's neck and a gun to his head, was the would-be assassin. His dark skin glistened with sweat. Eyeing Jennings with a cold detachment he said, “Put down your weapon and throw it across to me.”

Jennings hesitated for a moment but decided to comply. This man was not for messing with.

“Good,” said the man. “Now tell your partner to come round and do the same.”

Davis duly obliged.

The assassin kicked the guns into the corner and instructed Jennings and Davis to sit down on the floor and cuff themselves to the basin. After they had complied he whacked his pistol down on Appleby's skull and sent him crashing to the ground. He then walked up to Jennings and stared down at him curiously. “You are a good man,” he said. “Your eyes tell me this. Your aura tells me this. Get away from these people before it is too late.”

“What do you mean?” said Jennings.

He received no answer. The man disappeared and said nothing more.

A bitter wind swept across the dimly-lit yard. Jack Jones pulled his woollen hat down over his ears, adjusted his scarf, and carried on shovelling the slurry. The milking was done and his wife had gone indoors to make dinner. Once he'd finished mucking out he would be joining her. The thought of a delicious farmhouse stew was keeping him warmer than any garment ever could. Farming had become a thankless and profitless vocation, but there was still nothing to compare with the satisfying moment when, after a long day's labour, he walked into the glowing kitchen and caught that first whiff of proper home-cooked provender.

A high-pitched bleat from a nearby field stopped his tireless efforts. He listened intently as the noise grew. Within seconds the entire flock was acting as one giant ovine alarm bell. He threw down his spade and raced into the barn to fetch his shotgun. It was the fourth time in a fortnight that the sheep had kicked off, and on each of the previous occasions one had gone missing. This time he was going to catch whoever or whatever it was in the act.

He approached the field at pace, his firearm cocked at the ready. He reached the gate and stooped to switch on the generator. The previous day he had installed a bank of lights across the nearside fence; the dark would be no hiding place tonight.

The lamps blazed across the meadow, startling the sheep and even Jones himself. He squinted and lifted his free hand to his eyes as he accustomed them to the light. The sheep were scattered and bleating harder than ever. He scoured the horizon. About two hundred yards away, beyond the far fence, a figure hovered in the shadows. Jones moved quickly towards it, hoping to get in range for a decent shot. But as he moved so did his quarry. He stopped and aimed at speed, shooting twice. The dark figure halted briefly and Jones thought he caught two flashes of yellow staring back at him. But then, in an instant, the eyes and the silhouette were gone, swallowed up by the pitch of the moor. Jones sighed and let his gun hang loose.

The flock began to quiet. Jones headed for the far fence. On the top line of barbed wire he found strands of fleece peppered with blood. It had been the same on each previous occasion. He shook his head with perplexity. What was he dealing with here? What sort of creature managed to get a whole sheep over a three-and-a-half-foot barrier? He'd never believed the stories of a beast hiding out on the moor, but he was beginning to wonder. He fingered the fleece thoughtfully.

An object on the grass next to the fencepost caught his eye. It appeared to be a piece of cloth. He bent down to investigate and found that it was in fact a small canvas bag no bigger than his hand. He tried to pick it up but it was attached to the post. Freeing the package he opened it up, delved inside, and pulled out a roll of banknotes. He scratched his head.

After checking on the rest of the flock and finishing the mucking out he headed inside for dinner. Mrs Jones was at the sink draining the potatoes. “Foxes again?” she said.

“What?” replied Jones absently.

“Foxes,” she reiterated. “I ‘eard them sheep goin' off again. An' you with that gun.”

“No, not foxes. Something else. I dunno what.”

He pulled the bag from his pocket and emptied the contents onto the table. Then he unfurled the money and counted it. There was £1000 in total. Tucked between the last two notes was a small scrap of paper. Jones opened it up and eyed the inscription. It read: ‘Thanks for all the sheep, hope this covers it'. He sat back with a half smile, more confused than ever.

Stella washed her hands and began preparing the vegetables for her soup. With a potato as a head, celery as torso and limbs, and a limp carrot dangling, she made an effigy of Barry Bathwick on the chopping board. She brought the knife down forcefully, striking a blow against petty-minded little Hitler's the world over. The slicing of the carrot provoking particular pleasure.

A phone call from Jennings stopped her vindictive dissections. He said he was in the area and asked if it was okay to pop round. Stella was only too pleased to say yes. Her social life hadn't exactly been setting the world alight of late, and Jennings was always good company. He had been a real rock since Stratton's demise, and although she would never admit it, she had come to rely on his frequent visits for her sanity. There was probably more to his intentions than met the eye, but he always behaved impeccably towards her.

“What a day!” said Jennings as he entered the flat.

“Why?” said Stella. “What happened?”

Jennings looked at her in disbelief. “Where have you been?” he said. “Haven't you seen the news, or listened to the radio?”

“No. I've been asleep all afternoon. I had a bad day myself. Anyway, don't keep me in suspenders, tell me what happened.”

Stella made some coffee and listened intently as Jennings gave her a blow-by-blow account of the afternoon's events.

“Fucking hell!” she said, when he'd finished. “I can't believe it. So the guy's got clean away then?”

“Well yeah, I guess so,” said Jennings sheepishly. “I didn't have any other choice.”

“I know you didn't. I just thought that maybe one of the others would have got him on the way out.”

“No. He left the toilets and disappeared,” shrugged Jennings. “We had people posted at all the exits but no-one saw anything. He just vanished into thin air.”

“What about that fainting business?” she asked. “Weren't you scared?”

“I don't know really. It was kind of scary, but it was more weird than anything else. I felt like I'd been overcome by some exterior force. As if I wasn't there anymore. I'm sure Stratton could have explained it.” Stella's face fell, and Jennings realized his faux pas. “Sorry. I didn't mean to upset you.”

Stella put the thought from her mind and braved a smile. “It's alright,” she said. “There's no point skirting around the subject. He's gone and that's that. It's best that I get used to it. I can't live my life hanging onto ghosts can I?”

“No, you can't. But you can't just block things out either. You have to go through the grieving process or else the pain will stay hidden inside.”

“I guess so,” she said. “Anyway Doctor Jennings would you like to stay for something to eat? I'm in the middle of making soup.”

Jennings accepted the invitation gratefully. His recent diet of burgers, pizzas and curries was beginning to take its toll on both his body and his mind. His workload had been so heavy that he'd barely set foot in his flat, let alone cooked for himself. A home-made meal was just what he needed.

He turned the TV on to watch the news, wondering what the media was making of it all. As he suspected they had already put the blame squarely at the feet of Al-Qaeda. Apparently, a ‘reliable source' had informed the BBC that the secret services were almost certain the assassination attempt had been carried out by the Muslim terror group. Jennings laughed to himself. Was there anything the newsmongers wouldn't blame on Islam? Sure, the guy had been Asian, but he was a Sikh, not a Muslim. Jennings had noticed the long hair peeping out from under his hat, and the traditional bangles on his wrist. He went to the kitchen and voiced his concern to Stella.

“Do you think they've just made it up then?” she asked.

“Probably. It wouldn't be the first time. But I suppose it could be deliberate misinformation. If the guy thinks they're looking for a Muslim then he might get a bit lax. Although I doubt it would work with this man, he had that look about him. You know the one I mean?”

“Yeah. Professional, unfeeling, inscrutable, and deadly. Just like Yoshima.”

“Pretty much,” he nodded. “But there was something different in his voice. Yoshima was just plain cold and inhuman. This guy seemed like he had a purpose, as if he took no pleasure in what he was doing.”

Stella finished off in the kitchen and brought the soup and a couple of warm baguettes to the table. Jennings set about his food assiduously.

“What do you think he meant when he said ‘get away from these people'?” Stella asked.

Jennings finished a mouthful of bread and replied. “Just what he said I suppose. God knows why. Your guess is as good as mine. He seemed concerned though. Maybe he's right, maybe I should get away. It's not like I haven't been thinking about it anyway.”

“You'd be lost,” said Stella. “You wouldn't know what to do with yourself.”

“I don't know. I could maybe do something a bit more fulfilling. Something creative perhaps?”

“Trust me, you'd miss it if you left. Take it from one who knows. There's not a day goes by when I don't wish that I was back in the fold. Leaving was the worst mistake I ever made.”

“Why don't you come back then?” asked Jennings.

“Because Brennan won't let me. He thinks it's a kneejerk reaction to Stratton's death. Thinks I'll quit as soon as a better offer comes up. What do you think?”