Hunters: A Trilogy (35 page)

His call was answered immediately.

Without any form of greeting, McBride said, ‘Get Charlie to pick me up in five minutes – yes, just me, to Oxford Street.’ Placing the phone back in its cradle, he picked up his coat and headed out the door, slamming it behind him. After sliding into the rear of the silver Mercedes saloon that sat waiting for him in front of the building, James sat and stared out of the darkened window for a while, thoughts angrily whirring away. Snapping back into the present, he looked up and said to his driver, ‘Okay, let’s go.’ With a nod, the man snicked the car into gear and accelerated away from the pavement.

A short time later, when almost halfway there, James became filled with the urge to have a cigar, that was strange because he hadn’t touched the filthy things for years, but the craving was strong. He wanted one, and as everybody knew, what James McBride wanted, he usually ending up getting. Leaning forward, he spoke to his oversized driver. ‘Charlie, pull over at the next newsagent and get me some cigars, I don’t care what sort – anything decent will do.’

The driver nodded, and two minutes later the car slid expertly through the traffic to come to a halt outside a brightly-illuminated shop. A neon sign announcing the fact that you were lucky enough to be outside ‘Ali’s Convenience Store’ flickered intermittently, its fluorescent glow almost strobe-like as it illuminated the group of hooded youths who stood loitering on the pavement outside the grubby shop. Their pale features were only relieved by the occasional red glow of a cigarette, which they passed from hand to hand. The uniformity of their raised hoods and dark clothing gave them the much sought after aura of menacing anonymity.

Leaving the engine running, Charlie stepped out onto the pavement. Just as the driver’s door was closing, McBride heard one of the youths say: ‘Nice wheels!’ The rest of the sentence was lost as the door sealed itself shut against the outside world.

Charlie walked up to the gang of youths, paused, and then gave the boys his special stare, an evil expression that was in little need of any further explanation, ‘Touch my car and I’ll kill you and all of your miserable family!’ is what it said, and he would have. They shuffled their feet and looked away. Upon seeing their capitulation, Charlie turned and walked into the store with a confident stride, he was more than capable of sorting out any of them if they decided to be clever, and they knew it. Seeing the size of the Mercedes’ driver, the gang turned and took another longing glance at the highly-polished car. Then, deciding against anything stupid, they walked off down the street, laughing as they went.

In the silence of his car, James McBride turned the other way to watch the slow-moving traffic filtering down the street past his side window. ‘The rat-race, going home for egg and chips…screw that for a game of soldiers!’ He sneered at their mundane routine and reached for his briefcase – it was time for a quick check at the file, which Julian had sent him last week.

Hearing the driver’s door open, James lifted his head, fully expecting to see Charlie climbing into the seat. His eyes widened, there was definitely a man getting into the seat, rather a large man, too. However, it wasn’t Charlie.

McBride leaned forward, angrily saying: ‘Excuse me, but what the fuck are you…’ The sight of the front passenger door, also swinging open, turned his anger to fear. Swivelling his head towards the door, he was just in time to take a mouthful of the aerosol that a second man sprayed into his face.

It was only the tiniest squirt, but the effect of the spray hit McBride’s senses like a swinging shovel. Fire and ice shot down his nose and throat – his whole being became frozen, whilst an overwhelming smell of burning electricity filled his head. Like an unbalanced mannequin, he slid sideways and flopped onto the hand-stitched leather armrest. In seconds, the silver Mercedes had pulled away from the sidewalk and melted into the dusk-wrapped traffic.

The potion McBride had inhaled was already beginning to work its magic upon his frozen neurons. It caused him to dream in Technicolor, vivid scenes of money and children, dead children, arriving to fill his mind. He twisted within himself, unconscious on the outside, and yet on the inside, in his head, he was able to see those dreams. His sub-conscious writhed in abject fear, but no matter how hard he tried, James was unable to escape the bonds of his own, self-perpetuating remorse.

***

Charlie had to get the Tube home that day. It wasn’t the first time, and he wrongly guessed that it wouldn’t be the last. Smiling ruefully to himself, the big man slipped one of McBride’s cigars between his lips and headed for the nearest underground station. The cigar turned out to be of a rather fine, smooth-tasting brand. ‘Thanks, McBride,’ he thought, ‘there’s nothing quite like a free smoke – I’ll bet that tight bastard asks me for them tomorrow!’

Wrong again, Charlie, wrong again.

After emerging from his coma, it had taken Ken a further two weeks on the intensive care ward before he was transferred to a private hospital nearer to their lodge in Scotland. Once there, bedded in his own room, the recovery he made was remarkable. Within three days of being in the comfortable surroundings, he had managed to rise from the bed and wobble his way to the en-suite bathroom.

He still had a titanium rod inserted through his thigh bone that the hospital staff had said would probably stay for about another year. However, at the rate he was recovering then maybe it would be only six months. Ken reckoned on half that time, personally. The leg didn’t inconvenience him too much, but it was very weak and he couldn’t wait to get some physiotherapy done. He was glad they had removed the external fixator as the sight of its metal screws, piercing his thigh, had made him feel sick every time he looked at them, it was that and the fact they itched like hell!

‘Good riddance to them!’ he thought, grimacing at the memory of the itchy bolts. He gently fingered his cheekbone, it had healed well and all that now remained was a small spearhead-shaped scar, sitting just below his eye.

The Doc said that some basic plastic surgery would remove the scar completely. Ken thought plastic surgery should only be for those who had been seriously scarred, or maybe had a bad birth defect or something similar. In his book, anything else was just vanity and he was sure that he would quite happily be able to live with the thumbnail-sized scar.

Ken had looked at him in such a way that the doctor couldn’t prevent the shake of his own head. Quietly, he admired the tall man, and he’d told Jane that he wished that some of his other more self-centred patients had been able to take a leaf out of her husband’s book.

Jane laughed. ‘Yeah, he’s always been the same! Ken thinks he’s made of rock, but let me tell you, he’s as soft as a baby’s bum! It’s all show – he’s really just a big marshmallow…’ she had said, nodding gently towards her sleeping husband.

The doctor grinned back at her, but he doubted her words. He had seen the scars on her husband’s body from previous injuries, and had spent a lot of time reading the notes about Ken’s latest trauma. He knew that anyone who was able to come through those types of injury, and still be alive, never mind up and walking, was unlikely to have been made of some fluffy, pink candy. ‘No, this one was as tough as they come – bloody nice guy, too!’ He let his thoughts cross his face, smiling once more before heading off on his rounds.

After another week in hospital, and several intensive CT scans on his head, the Consultant allowed Ken to go home. It was one of the happiest days of his life, the hospital was driving him crazy and as much as he thoroughly appreciated all they had done for him, he couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

They had filled the hole in his head with some kind of resin – the plate in the back of his skull would remain with him forever, as would the physical scars, which surrounded his other injuries. Other than those scars, he was basically good to go. They had said he would need the occasional check-up, but apart from that, it was only rest, a good diet and plenty of exercise that were prescribed. So, after some emotional farewells he and Jane left the hospital without looking back.

Three months of doing exactly what the doctor had ordered saw Ken almost back to full fitness. The fresh air, fine food, endless walks, runs and mountain-bike rides, turned his somewhat weakened frame back into the stringy person he’d been up until a chunk of flying metal, and the dreams, had changed everything.

Jane offered to get him a multi-gym, Ken declined as he’d never been a big fan of repeatedly lifting inanimate objects, instead preferring hard work and a generally active lifestyle to keep him fit. Plus the fact that the sight of grown men, looking at themselves in the mirror, whilst endlessly flexing some ‘quad’ or ‘lat’ made him shudder. No, he stuck to the basics, which, when added to some old-fashioned wood chopping and endless hours of winter gardening, soon had him back in decent shape.

He’d been right about the pin in his leg, too. The surgeon was very pleased with his progress and said it would be removed much sooner than at first thought. And so, after another tedious bout of surgery followed by some heavy physiotherapy, all that remained was a decent scar and a slight limp, which after some hard work eventually disappeared as well. In almost no time at all the ropey body of one Kenneth Robinson was nearly as good as new. However, it would be quite some time before his slightly diminished grey matter would be as fortunate, quite some time indeed.

Ken had not had a single dream since the last one, the big one about dying. He remembered seeing Jane in the light, but after that it seemed his mind’s only need was some rest, and it didn’t permit any interfering dreams to interrupt its healing process. Ken slept a lot – long, deep, restful sleeps. He remembered the dreams about the wonderfully bizarre things he’d encountered whilst unconscious. If that is what state he’d actually been in. Which, it has to be said, Ken severely doubted.

He also remembered everything about Red, too. The pebble and the Zippo lighter that Mike had left for him on the bedside table only served to deepen the mystery, had it really happened? The whole thing confused him because it was too real, much too tangible to have merely been a dream, definitely. He wasn’t sure, but strangely enough he felt quite logical about it; deep inside, Ken knew it wasn’t over. Half of him wondered what the next move would be.

The thought was such a vivid one and it wouldn’t seem to leave his mind, there would be another move, of that he was absolutely sure.

In the meantime he intended to enjoy his life and have some good times with Jane – it had been a long while since they had shared so much time together. Ken spent hours watching her paint, she was a natural artist and simply watching the flowing strokes of her brushes would send him into a near trance. It was so relaxing, just sitting and watching her as the pictures appeared like magic from the finely bristled tips of her tools.

He also looked forward to seeing Mike again, Ken had only seen him the once during his time in hospital, but at the time had been so spaced out on painkillers that the only memory he had was one of Mike giving him some abuse about being scrawny. Ken hadn’t spoken to the Australian since then and the only communication had been in the form of a text message he’d received from a weird number, one that he didn’t recognise.

The text message had read: ‘All well, business taken care of. I’ll be with you soon. George will be in touch.’ It had ended with one word: ‘Mike’.

When Ken had tried to return the text, the screen on his mobile flashed once, turned green, and then as he watched in disbelief, the message deleted itself. Yeah, he was pretty damned sure there was more to come – in fact, Ken relished the idea. However, he was still trying to figure out a way in which to explain everything to his wife. ‘She’s gonna think I’ve lost the bloody plot!’ The thought worried him, but he needed to share this with her, needed to get it out of his own head. Finally, he just decided to just give it to her straight; tell Jane exactly what he thought had happened, the whole fantastic tale, all of it.

***

The depths of winter were upon the Scottish Highlands, wonderful frosty mornings making the beautiful place seem even more like a postcard than was usual. The white peaks of surrounding hills framed the shimmering lochs as they lay dourly below the hills’ lofty stance. Dark grey clouds scooted past overhead, bringing the promise of snow in their wake, their fantastical shapes playing tricks with the mind, conjuring up images of dragons, clowns’ faces, and that man on a skidoo, perhaps. Amongst such beauty, husband and wife were out early once again, as they were every day, the steam-filled breath flying in long ribbons from their mouths, the cutting freshness of icy air reaching into their souls. The pair were racing down the gravel track, knobbly tyres slipping and sliding as they fought to keep their mountain bikes from throwing them into the verges.

Jane laughed, saying: ‘Please be careful, Kenny, if you crash then we’ll be back to square one, you maniac!’ It didn’t stop her from trying to pass him up the inside, though. Her long legs pumped furiously as she and Ken tore back to the lodge, bumping and jolting down the track to their house. The loser had to make breakfast. Sometimes, Ken truly lost the race and sometimes he simply felt like cooking.

The one thing he had definitely lost, amazingly, was the desire to smoke. He had been a heavy smoker for years, but now it never even crossed his mind. The hospital had said it was probably the length of time he’d been without a cigarette, but may have been as a direct result of the accident. He laughed about it with Jane. ‘Now, there’s a good business for us,’ he said, ‘the ultimate smoking cure: we smash ‘em on the head with an iron bar and then they give up smoking. It’s simple…we’d make a fortune!’ She gave him such a scowl that Ken burst into laughter again.

Gradually, over the weeks, Ken had begun to tell Jane his tale. Little-by-little he let her in to his mind, and then, before he realised it, his story had become a rush and he couldn’t stop telling her. He spent a lot of time explaining to her about the Hyenas and their greed – he talked about water and oil, and of the device that George had said would have cured all their problems. Ken told her in detail about George, and of the insane things he had been shown by him. He spoke of the Light Maker and the awful future he had been so casually shown by an unknown old man who wore some shiny-buckled sandals.