First Person (5 page)

There
was a moment before Martin knew what I meant but then he put it together and he
just sort of crumbled. It started behind his eyes and spread down to his hips
which just gave way. In two steps, Andy was there, caught Martin and just moved
his over to the chair. Martin flopped down on its low frame and his eyes greyed
out. We had him. We never didn’t have him, but he was beaten now. He let out a
big sigh and we crowded round him, blocking any attempt to run.

Martin
looked me right in the eye, lucid again. “I just wanted to be a step nearer.”

I
nodded. I understood. I really did, and still do. Me and Andy are further away
than ever but it’s the price you pay for the life that’s chosen you. Martin,
and creeps like Tomas, not to mention baby Magda in the crib, wanted something
else. Who can blame them?

Andy
took the pistol crossbow from under his jacket and primed it. “There are twelve
steps, Martin. You wanna get to heaven you gotta get in line.”

Martin
nodded and watched Andy pull the mechanism back. When he handed it to me, I
already had the Bolt in my hand and Martin started breathing a bit harder. Andy
reached down to hold him still but Martin flinched and lifted a hand. He
stilled his breathing and Andy straightened up without having grabbed the guy.
Martin pulled the cuffs of his shirt down. He looked at me. “Will I see you
again?”

A
tiny shake of my head.
Three strikes and straight to hell.

Martin
swallowed again, his temples pulsed. “And Magda?” He barely managed to say the
words, just barely managed to look at his baby wife in the crib.

I
huffed a small laugh at such an idiotic question. “We don’t Bolt minors,
Martin.” I put the Bolt in the pistol and put the pistol to his neck. He closed
his eyes when I pulled the trigger and his body only flinched slightly as he
died.

We
stood for a moment in the quiet room. The baby shifted in her crib and cooed
lightly. Andy held his hands and cocked his head. “What about the kid?”

This
one was on me. “We’ll phone the cops and report this murder.”

I
handed the pistol to Andy. He put it away and shrugged his jacket into a
comfortable position. He looked at Martin’s lifeless body. “Goddamn Cutters.”

“
A
re you just
off the boat, sir?”

He
looks at me and frowns momentarily. Brown eyes flicker in search of the memory
to answer my question. He looks back down the pier to see the ferry slip away.
It slides easily away from the pier and across the water. We stand on solid
ground, away from the wooden pier. A breeze from the sea, a narrow marine lake,
cools the air as we meet in warm summer sunshine. He looks tired, as if
recently wakened, which if true is a good thing. Sleeping makes the crossing
easier.

He
puffs out his cheeks and blows out a sigh, my question forgotten. Though I know
the answer, I saw him disembark after all, it was asked of him to begin a
conversation. His clothes are smart; dressed well in shirt and tie, though no
jacket in this fine weather. He rubs his chin, square jawed. There is a hint of
stubble. He looks at me and I know what he is thinking. He’s wondering why I’m
talking to him.

“Would
you like a hand with your bags?” I ask.

His
hands reach down for his bags, but I can already see he has none. Puzzled, he
looks behind him. The short pier is free of any clutter, let alone anything
belonging to him. The main sounds are water splashes, and gulps under the pier,
from the wake of the ferry as it continues its journey to the other side. He
turns back to me. “I don’t seem to...”

“It’s
quite alright, sir,” I say, lifting a hand slightly to gently reassure him. “I
can help you. Many visitors arrive without luggage, and I have many varieties.”

He
smiles uneasily, though gratefully. He has straight white teeth, and must say I
find him rather handsome, his bearing agreeable. My time with him will be
enjoyable, I think to myself, though professional courtesy forbids me to treat
him differently from any other customer. I gesture for him to step away from
the pier edge and go further into the town.

We
walk together, him looking at the pretty little seaside town which greets his
eyes. A terrace of different shaped homes face the sea, each painted in a
different vivid colour. His attention is shared between a dark blue
three-storey building and its neighbour; smaller and yellow. I ask, “You seem
pleased to see this place. Is it similar to one you have visited before?”

He
stops and I wait next to him. “Not exactly the same. But yes, I am pleased to
be here.”

“This
way, sir.” I hold out an arm to move him further along. “We must reach my shop
if I am to sell you some bags.”

“Thank
you,” he says, stepping forward on my lead and giving me a warmer smile this
time. Continuing our journey, we turn the corner at the end of the terrace to
find the High Street. The road is empty save for us, and shop fronts hold
little interest for him. One window, displaying rows of colourful sweetie jars,
barely gets a glance from him. He seems more interested in adjusting his tie.
“I’m not really here to shop.”

“Of
course not, sir,” I say, “But I’m sure you’ll like my luggage store.”

We
reach my shop front and I push the door open. A bell above the doorway rings as
I beckon him inside and it rings again when he has entered and the door is
closed. It is cool inside the shop. Away from the sunshine outside he looks
around at the displays. He sees holdalls and handbags but I steer him towards
the luggage section. “I’m not really in the mood for shopping,” he tells me.

I
agree with him. “You’ve come here to get away from all that.”

“I’ve
left it all behind,” he says, quite sure of himself in that instant, but the
feeling fades and he goes in on himself again, questioning why he should say
such a thing. I can see it in his eyes. I’m familiar with this reaction. It’s
common after all.

I
decide to prompt him. “But one must have luggage.”

Rubbing
the stubble on his chin, he comes to a decision, though he expresses it
half-heartedly. “I suppose.”

Allowing
him, a customer, the space he needs to decide what he wants, I step back. He
reviews the stand where I keep the big pieces. He touches a few, but it’s clear
that nothing is catching his attention. He’s not yet ready to make the
decision, I suppose. From out of the blue, he says to me, “I’ve got regrets,
you know, about the things I’ve done.”

I
pause. “Really?”

He
looks at his tie again. It’s a sort of mustard colour. He smoothes it against
his white shirt and adjusts his collar. In the quietness of the shop, I can
hear the bristles of his chin stubble prickle against the material. “I seem to
have lived a rather ordinary life.” He pauses and looks at me. Confusion flutters
across his face. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”

I
give him my best smile and don’t move from my position, discreetly away from
him, my customer. “There’s no time for regrets when one is travelling.”

“I
guess not.” His smile, when it comes, is sad, but I recognise relief there too.
I’ve seen it before in other patrons of this shop. I think he’s ready now. When
I look at the luggage rack, it prompts him to turn his attention back towards
it. He quickly finds a piece and slides it out from the rack. We cross to a
counter where we examine it. It’s convenient to have a large flat space to view
the items in the shop. The customer can move around and look at the piece
without having to hold it up.

“Good
choice.” I snip the labels off their plastic ties and discard them in the bin.
“Big enough for a long trip, light enough to carry. Are you satisfied with the
colour?”

“It’s
kind of navy, isn’t it? I like it.” He knocks knuckles on the suitcase’s
rippled surface. “I like the solid type.”

“So
do I sir.”

His
mood brightens and he starts to engage with the process. “Is it a popular
model?”

I
examine it as I speak. “No, I believe you’re the first person to choose this
type.”

“How
much is it?”

I
shake my head, and use as soothing a voice as I can. “Nothing. You’ve already
paid.”

Satisfied,
he smiles broadly at me, showing his straight white teeth. He runs his hands
over the item before smoothing down his tie. Sensing his hesitation, I decide
to get things moving again. I slide the case off the counter and hold an open
palm towards the door. “Shall we go?”

Holding
his breath, he nevertheless agrees with a nod. I hold the door open for him. I
doubt he hears the bell and we’re outside again. It has cooled since we were
indoors and the sun is fading behind high cloud blown in from the sea. He
follows me up the street. He is blinking and looking around, but he can’t seem
to focus, his breathing is becoming ragged.

“Not
long now, sir. We just need to find a spot.” I carry the luggage off the
ground, despite it having wheels. We are leaving the empty town behind and
arrive at an open piece of flat ground. I stop. He looks around, seeing
nothing.

“Is
this it?” He’s not surprised, just asking me the question.

“All
our choices bring us here,” I tell him, placing the luggage gently on the
ground. I kneel down beside it, laying it flat, and pressing the buttons which
release the catch.

His
breath catches and I see him look around. Mist has blown in. Sea breeze reaches
up to us. From experience, I know that his view of the town is obscured by this
mist and he is beginning to feel disconnected from his surroundings; panicking
almost. Smoothly, I stand and place a hand on his shoulder. “Keep your
attention on the suitcase.”

His
brown eyes still when I speak before moving to the case. It lies open, showing
its clean dark interior. He says to me, “There’s not much room.”

“There’s
all the space you’ll need,” I tell him as simply as I can.

The
mist moves again in the breeze and I hope he doesn’t glimpse the row upon row
of suitcases lying flat and closed. Sometimes they do and I must handle their
reaction. He looks at me. His breathing has stilled. “Will I dream?”

I
don’t know the answer to this question, though I am often asked. I swallow and
nod. My hand is still on his shoulder. “Yes, you will dream.”

I
let him go. He rubs his chin stubble again and breathes out. He steps into the
suitcase and lies down. He pulls the lid down himself, something not all
customers do. Of course, I secure the latches myself, crouching down again.  I wait
for a moment in that position and think of him. As predicted, our time together
was pleasant.

I
tap the surface of the suitcase gently, before standing. My knees barely make
it but I’m soon upright. I pat myself down. I’ve become a little dusty and need
to make sure that I am presentable. It would not do for someone to visit my
shop and find otherwise.

The
mist has gone and the sun is poking through the high cloud, ready to shine
again. Beyond the town, from my elevated position amongst the rows of suitcases,
I see the pier reach into the water. The ferry is returning. I head off towards
it, ready to meet my next customer of the day.

I
kiss my
wife goodbye.
She straightens my tie before smiling and waving at me as I walk down our path.
Our son stands to her left, still in his pyjamas. He rubs his eyes sleepily and
clutches a teddy. I smile broadly at them. I am next to my car. It is a blue
station wagon. Opening the car door, I wave again then my briefcase is on the
seat next to me. The car has started up and I am driving out of my driveway.

On
leaving our street, I turn left onto Main Street. People are going about their
morning business. A yellow car passes, travelling in the opposite direction.
Checking the traffic behind me, I catch sight of myself in the mirror and I
adjust my glasses. Sunlight pours through the window and warms my arms. I wave
as I recognise a neighbour pushing a stroller down the sidewalk; her child
shakes a rattle in the air. Another neighbour parks his green car outside the
drugstore and ambles inside.

The
only light on Main Street is suspended over the intersection. It is at red.
Slowing my blue station wagon to a halt, I wait behind a black SUV; its
darkened windows concealing the occupants. A high-pitched squeal behind me,
then to the left of me, and now in front of me, as a red sports car appears
from nowhere, rounds me, and then smacks into the black SUV in front. The
driver of the red car jumps out of his door and is firing a pistol, side-on with
the handle pointing off to the right.

I
am alarmed and don’t know what to do. My jaw lies open and my eyes must be
popping out of my head. Gunfire explodes around me. The driver of the black SUV
gets out. He is enormous, barely fitting into his black suit. He is firing a
machine gun. Despite his size, the gun is still huge and its bullets punch
great holes into the red car. Neither man has yet been hit by a bullet. My
windshield is holed twice, two round circles that spread out in a jagged
pattern. The bullets have not hit me.

Police
sirens pulse up ahead and blue and red lights flicker into my eyes. The two men
stop firing at each other and turn to face the direction of the police. Two
black and white cars land on the intersection and the officers are on their
feet, leaning into the gap between their car door and the vehicle itself,
firing their weapons. Machine gun and angled-pistol fire is hammered back at
them. The man from the red car is jumping up and down, firing casually. The man
with the machine gun is poised, anchoring his feet and firing with more care.
Neither takes cover.

My
windshield takes some more hits and I duck. Glass shatters all around me,
crunching onto the seats and floor. Cowering beneath the steering wheel, I flip
the car into reverse and lift my foot from the brake, feeling the car begin to
move backwards. The gun battle continues. Warily, I lift my head to see through
the space where the window had been. A police officer is falling to the ground.
In that instant, through the gaping hole where my windshield should be, I see
his face contort in pain, as he clutches his chest and crumples backwards. His
body goes slack. I press the accelerator.

My
car swerves erratically backwards until I see my neighbour, leaving his green
car to go into the drugstore. I shout out, “Get in your car! Run!” But he does
not hear me. I see my other neighbour with her stroller. The child rattles its
toy and gurgles at the sky. I shout out to her, “Get in! Get in!” She ignores
me and continues along the sidewalk. I realise she is going towards the
intersection. I press my horn but she continues, oblivious. I kick the brake to
halt the car.

I
look through my windshield up ahead; my windshield, it is intact. Rapping it
with a knuckle shows it to be whole. I look to the seat beside me and see only
my briefcase. There is no shattered glass there, or on my lap, or on the floor.
Looking up ahead again, I see the intersection. I can hear myself breathing.
The intersection is clear. The light is green and traffic flows through. There
is no gun battle. I wait for a moment, breathing and listening to the engine
idling. A black SUV overtakes me and cruises down Main Street.

I
put the car in drive and follow the black SUV. A yellow car passes, travelling
in the opposite direction. The neighbour with the stroller continues with her
journey. The child rattles the toy. My other neighbour locks his green car and
goes into the drugstore. I see now that he is locking it before turning to the
building. I notice this for the first time and that the child in the stroller
is a girl. I hadn’t seen this earlier. I arrive at the intersection behind the
SUV. A familiar high-pitched squeal and the red sports car rounds me to collide
with the SUV. The occupant gets out, but this time it’s a woman who gets out
and not a man firing a pistol side-on. She is a tall blonde in a red dress, a
long split up each thigh, with silver pistols in holsters where her garters
should be. She takes all the time in the world to ready herself. She even looks
at me for a moment and winks. Then the shooting begins. A pistol in each hand
she is coolly firing at the SUV. The driver of the black SUV is the same burly
male as before. He is firing a machine gun.

This
time I do not hesitate. At full speed, I reverse up Main Street. I see my
neighbour at his green car outside the drugstore and I scream at him to run but
he ignores me again. Our other neighbour and her little girl in the stroller
head back down Main Street. I lean on the horn and know that my shouting is useless
but what else can I do? The yellow car passes me on the other side and this
encourages me to change direction. I pull on the wheel and my blue station
wagon lurches round in a circle. The tyres squeal as the vehicle is flung round
and amazingly I don’t lose any speed and I start to move forward away from the
intersection.

I
speed into my driveway and run up to the front door. I am panicking. My wife is
at the door. She smiles at me and adjusts my tie. Our son stands at her knees.
He is clutching a teddy bear and rubbing his eyes. I don’t understand how they
have just stood there since I left them. I try to talk to my wife as she smiles
and adjusts my tie. “We have to call the police. Something very strange is
happening.” She smiles and reaches out for my tie, but I grasp her hands in
mine. “What are you doing?”

I
realise I am shouting. Our son rubs his eyes and begins to yawn. I look at my
wife. She is still smiling. I want to grab her and handle her inside but she
seems so fragile. She is wearing a flower pattern apron over a yellow jersey
and a puffed skirt. Her eyes, though shining with love for me, are flat, like
they are painted on. She looks through me almost. Blonde hair is flicked away
from her face as she smiles at me. Her hands have been removed from my grip and
she adjusts my tie. I see, as if noticing for the first time, that her nose
crinkles as she takes enjoyment from this morning ritual.

Our
son rubs his eyes and begins to yawn. His eyes widen. Something behind me has
taken his attention. My wife sees it too. She screams. Her hands are on my
shoulders and she kicks one of her feet in the air behind her. I turn around
and see a gas tanker, a huge truck, crash through our neighbour’s house;
straight through. It tears up his yard and is coming towards our yard, towards
us. The cab lurches to the side and the tanker begins to jack-knife. The
truck’s tyres chug in ever increasing volume as the driver tries to right the
vehicle. I see his expression beneath a red cap as he panics. Finally, the truck
is over on its side and it explodes.

The
sound is enormous and the blast knocks us all off our feet. Heat washes over us
and a yellow fireball pushes into the air mutating into a black cloud in the
shape of a mushroom. Gunfire crackles through the sound as the red sports car
from earlier spins into our street pursued by the black SUV. The man in the red
sports car, the first driver I saw earlier, is behind the wheel. The driver of
the SUV is leaning out his window and firing his machine gun. Police sirens
from Main Street can be heard.

I
look at my wife. She is alarmed and clearly doesn’t know what to do. Our son is
crying, standing again, his teddy still in his hand, though held loosely at his
side. My wife’s eyes search mine for an answer. I tell her, “We have to go.”
She nods, absent-mindedly, and I help her to her feet. I lift our son up and
hold him close. Keeping low, we run towards the back of the house. Leaving in
the car is not an option because of the tanker and the gun battle which both
block our way out. Flocks of police cars move in, their white doors open for
the officers to spill out and fire at the combatants.

I
hold our son in my arm and hold my wife’s hand as we enter our back yard. Water
spits out a sprinkler as we cross the lush grass. We reach the fence and run
along to the gate. My wife unlatches it with her free hand and we are out into
the alley, leaving the sound of gunfire behind. I look up and already the cloud
has dispersed into the air, leaving only a blue sky. Looking back to the alley,
a dog sniffs around a lamp-post then scampers off.

A
man walks up the alley towards us. His shirt is rolled up at the sleeves and he
carries a newspaper. He is smiling. My wife is in a state of total panic. She
clutches my hand. Our son, still in pyjamas, buries his head in my shoulder. As
the man approaches, I say to him, “Turn around! Go back!”

As
if he did not hear me, the man smiles at me and says, “Good morning,
neighbour.”

I
go to stop him, to say something more, but my wife pulls at my hand, saying,
“We have to go. Go now!”

I
agree. At the end of the alley, the street is quiet at first but as we pause,
considering which way to go, the red sports car rushes past. For a moment, I
feel like everything slows down and I see the driver behind the wheel. It is
the blonde in the red dress. She smiles and winks at me before gunning her car
on. Gunshots bring the moment back to normal speed and the black SUV hurtles
past, its driver leaning out of the window and firing his machine gun. I see
for the first time that he is balding at the crown of his head and the rest of
his hair is close cropped. His black suit is old and frayed at the lapels. His
tie hangs loose around the open collar of a grubby white shirt. All this I see
in a heartbeat as bullets zing and smack around us. I don’t know how we are not
hit.

When
the cars have gone, we cower at the corner of the alley as police cars rush
after the two vehicles. I look at my wife. She is scared but is beginning to
come to her senses. She checks on our boy. He is unhurt. My wife tells me this
with a nod of her head and a relieved sigh. The man with rolled up sleeves is
still in the alley and he wishes us a good morning as he heads off with his
newspaper. My wife and I exchange a look which means we don’t understand what
is happening but we no longer care about that. All we care about is our son.

I
ask her, “Where shall we go?”

“The
bridge.” She is sure about this, so we go.

We
walk through many streets, some I know, but most I don’t. Everywhere we go
black SUVs and red sports cars are involved in a deadly chase. A few people are
like us, frightened and scared, and running away from the mayhem and confusion.
But others, most we see in fact, are like the man with the rolled-up sleeves
and newspaper. In fact, they are like my wife and son were when I went back
home. They are impassive, unconcerned, sometimes cheerful at best. We see men
who can only be brothers of the man with the newspaper. They are dressed
differently, some with rolled down sleeves, or even a tie and hat, but
unmistakeably relatives of the man in the alley. We don’t know what to make of
this so we keep going.

“Which
bridge are we going to?” I ask when I realise my wife is leading us in a
direction I’m unsure of.

“It’s
this way,” she says. Her voice is a forced whisper. Her knees are bent as she
makes quick progress despite her white high heeled shoes. Our son’s head
remains buried in my shoulder. His teddy is missing, dropped somewhere behind
us. She pulls at my hand as we make our way through a less affluent area.
Burnt-out cars litter the street. Wooden houses sit back from scrubby lawns. An
old woman sits on her rocking chair and smiles at us. She seems flat to me,
unrounded, but she smiles and waves at us from her raised porch. Flaked paintwork
speckles the front of her home. Tiles are missing from her roof. My son lifts
his head and waves back at her silently. This makes her very happy. As we leave
her, she has stopped rocking and holds her palms together in front of her mouth
like she is thinking about something.

The
sun pushes through hazy smog. It is hot and I am becoming tired from carrying
my son. Behind us, the sound of car chases is diminishing. Up ahead, two youths
confront another boy, pushing him against a wall. My wife pulls us up a different
street to avoid them. My glasses slip down my nose. Our son strokes my shirt
where the sleeve meets my arm above the elbow.

Buildings
begin to thin out. We’re in more of an industrial area now. Blocky buildings
have been shuttled in amongst one another, threaded by alleys. Thin streams of
water trickle down slopes. A black SUV is parked outside a building advertised
as “Inner City Ink Inc”. The script is lurid and stylised. A bald-headed man
stands outside the door smoking a cigarette. His left foot is placed on the
wall behind him while his right is planted on the ground. Revealed by a white
T-shirt, tattoos cover his arms. He ignores us.