Simon Green - The Dark Side of the Road

Call me Ishmael. Ishmael Jones.

I got the phone call in the early hours of the morning. I was in the main bar of some hotel in London. Don’t ask me its name; they all blend into each other after a while. I have no home of my own. Never have. Too risky. I just move from hotel to hotel, using this name or that. Makes it that much harder for people to find me. But the Colonel always knows where I am. That was part of the deal we struck, all those years ago.

It wasn’t much of a bar, but then, it wasn’t much of a hotel. Not a salubrious, or even a cheerful place. The lighting was too bright, the fittings and furnishings more functional than comfortable. And the background music was such an offence to the ear that I ended up having to bribe the barman to shut it down. I sat on a stool at the bar, so I wouldn’t have to keep getting up to order more drinks. It was that bleary-eyed time in the early hours when the night life just gives it all up as a bad idea and admits defeat. I was the only customer left in the bar. Everyone else had gone home, or gone to bed, or both. The bartender was standing around with his arms folded, looking worn out and resentful. Wishing I would leave, so he could shut the bar down and turn in. But I wasn’t going anywhere. I didn’t feel tired, or sleepy. I wouldn’t for several days. I keep strange hours because I lead a strange life.

I looked at myself in the mirror behind the bar. My reflection met my gaze with a cold, mistrustful stare. A very familiar face because it hadn’t changed in so very long. Not the one I would have chosen; but good enough. I was tall, slim, dark-haired and handsome enough if you weren’t too choosy. A long rangy figure who appeared to be in his mid twenties. Dressed well, but anonymously. The kind of stuff you can buy anywhere, so you can fit in anywhere. An easy smile, a casual look, and dark eyes that gave away absolutely nothing. Someone who had learned to walk through the world without making ripples because he couldn’t afford to be noticed. Who lived under the radar because he couldn’t afford to be found out. A man who drove on the dark side of the road. I toasted my reflection with my almost empty glass. I thought I looked pretty good, for someone whose appearance hasn’t changed a bit since 1963.

And that was when my mobile phone rang. Or, rather, shuddered in my pocket. I always keep it on vibrate. Because a sudden ringtone can make people look at you, and remember you. I took my time hauling the phone out. I knew who it was; who it had to be. The Colonel’s the only man who has my number, these days. I work for the Colonel and the Organization he says he represents. Whatever that might be. Some day, I hope to find out exactly who and what I’m working for. It would be nice to know. But as long as the Colonel continues to protect me from all the people who want to find me; and as long as he keeps pointing me in the direction of really bad people who need taking down; and as long as he keeps paying me really good money to do it … I’m happy to go along.

I put the phone to my ear. ‘What do you want, Colonel?’

‘And merry seasonal greetings to you, dear boy,’ said the Colonel. ‘How would you like to come and join me for Christmas, in the grand old country house of Belcourt Manor? Deep in the heart of rural Cornwall, far away from all the hustle and bustle of the big bad city. Good food and good booze, and who knows? Maybe even silly hats and party games till dawn. Only several hours’ hard driving from where you are now, if you start straight away. I need you with me at the Manor, as fast as you can get here. The situation is … somewhat urgent.’

‘What’s the mission?’ I said.

‘Oh, not a mission at all, as such, old bean,’ said the Colonel. ‘More like, a personal favour to me. Tell you all about it when you get here. Never know who’s listening in, these days. It used to be just us, but then the Government insisted on getting involved. I don’t like how it feels down here, at the Manor. Could be wrong, of course. I could just be jumping at shadows. In which case, we’ll all have a jolly old time eating too much, drinking too much, and dozing off in front of the television. The usual deeply religious Christian celebration.’

‘But you don’t think you’re wrong, do you?’ I said.

‘Of course not, dear boy. Or I wouldn’t be calling you. Will you come?’

Of course I said yes. I couldn’t turn him down; not after everything the Colonel had done for me. He gave me the address in Cornwall, and enough general directions so I could be sure of getting there even if my satnav threw a wobbly, and then he hung up. Before I could ask him any questions. Like; what it was at the Manor that had spooked him so badly. Or; what it was he wanted me to do for him. I put my phone away and nodded to the quietly seething bartender to fill my glass again. One more large drink, and then off into the night, and the dark, one more time. To do things in the shadows that the everyday people don’t need to know about. Because someone’s got to slay the dragons, even if the armour isn’t as shining as it used to be. And because if you have to hide in the shadows, it helps if you thin out the predators that want to hide in there with you.

I drove my rented a car a lot faster than was safe, pressing on into the winter storm with cold determination. The wind howled like a demon on the loose, and everywhere I looked heavy falling snow was burying the open countryside under gleaming white shrouds. The road ahead was almost completely blocked, but I just aimed my car like a bullet and put the hammer down. Everything forward, and trust in the Lord. I hunched over the steering wheel, peering through the windshield at the deadly white world outside.

The wipers were doing everything they could, but the wind was blasting so hard now that it was practically snowing sideways. I’d been driving for hours without a break, and what had started out as a pleasant snowfall when I was leaving London had quickly degenerated into the kind of vicious blizzard that ends up in the history books. More and more, I was driving by guesswork and instinct.

My satnav kept telling me I wasn’t far from my destination, but I wasn’t sure I believed it. I was out in the middle of nowhere, hammering down a narrow country lane, surrounded by miles and miles of endless white. It felt like I was driving on the moon, surrounded by nothing but open space, and not a landmark anywhere. The car’s tyres lurched and skidded over the undulating snow, sometimes digging in unexpectedly; and then the steering wheel would do its best to rear up and hit me in the face. Or deep snow ridges would throw the car back and forth so violently that it would end up bouncing off both sides of the road; and then I had to fight the wheel for control until I could force the car back in the right direction. So far, I was winning, through a combination of stubbornness and brute strength … but it was starting to look like a race as to which would wear out first: my hands, or the steering column.

The calm-voiced announcer on the car radio (no doubt sitting safe and warm in some BBC regional studio) seemed to be taking great pleasure in informing me that I was caught right in the middle of the worst storm since modern records began. That most of the roads were snowed under, the trains weren’t running, and the airports were all shut down … And that no one should try and go anywhere unless their journey was absolutely necessary. Stay at home, stay inside, where it’s safe. The announcer allowed himself a small chuckle. We all like a little snow at Christmas, but this is overdoing it, just a bit. So stay warm, and have a very happy Christmas. I turned the radio off. It was either that, or reach down the radio and rip his heart out.