D. Mitchell - The King of Terrors

The gun. The weapon sitting heavy and brutally aggressive in his pocket. He was alarmed at how quickly he was growing accustomed to carrying it. ‘True,’ he said. ‘I guess.’

‘Don’t worry, Gareth,’ he said for the umpteenth time, which Gareth found a trifle worrying all the same, ‘this will be all over soon enough. You’ll find out all you need to know. I just have to get you somewhere safe, so hang in there, buddy. You’ll be passed onto my colleagues — trusted colleagues. Until then you are in real danger of losing your life. For that matter, we both are. Look, you must be tired; grab a bit of shuteye — we’ve got another hour or so to go yet.’

It was dawn when they turned off into a leafy green lane, rolling arable fields veiled in mist all around. It all looked so normal. So peaceful. They bumped down the lane for a few minutes till Muller took a sharp swing to the left, down an even narrower lane that led directly to an old dilapidated farmhouse shielded on three sides by ranks of long-established trees. Muller killed the engine and bade Gareth leave the car. He went round the back of the vehicle and took out a black case from the boot, his head swivelling from side to side as he scanned the yard, the run-down outbuildings, and the hedges and fields beyond.

‘Go inside,’ he said, tossing Gareth a bunch of rusting door keys. ‘I’ll hide the car from view. Put the kettle on for a coffee, eh?’

Gareth unlocked the old door, all its paint having flaked away over the decades and revealing grey weatherworn wood. The place smelled strongly of neglect; obviously it hadn’t been used in a very long time. Gareth wasn’t sure it was even habitable, or indeed safe to go inside. The tiny living-room-cum-kitchen had an old padded sofa and armchair huddled together for comfort in front of a 1950s beige-tiled fireplace, the carpet being a survivor — just — of the 1970s, bearing a garish red and yellow flower pattern that almost hurt the eyes; the wallpaper looked far older and in parts it had come away with the damp to reveal a pattern from a previous decade lurking beneath. The windows were so mired with filth it looked like someone had washed them with mud. An empty terracotta plant pot sat alone and despondent on a dirty windowsill peppered with dead flies and wasps; it looked like someone had been careless with a bag of currants. An old, cream dial phone from the 1960s sat on the floor amid entrails of nicotine-yellow and brown cabling which led to who knew where.

He saw Muller drive the car past the window, or a vague shape he assumed must be a car glimpsed through the fog of dirt. Heard the door opening and being slammed shut. He went to an ancient-looking fridge; the light came on when he pulled open the door, and it buzzed like a large moth in a jam jar, but all that was inside was a single carton of semi-skimmed milk. He found an old kettle by a stone Belfast sink and filled it from a rusty cold-water tap that coughed and spat and finally, with a hefty grunt, threw up a torrent of water. He sat it on a gas cooker that was so smeared with brown fat it almost disguised the fact it was once white.

‘All we have to do now is wait,’ said Muller brightly as he came into the room; he looked decidedly more at ease now they were in the farmhouse. He had the black case in his hand. ‘There are a few provisions in the cupboard over there, if you find you need to fix yourself something to eat. There’s even a TV through there.’ He pointed to a doorway. ‘Portable but adequate for the rubbish that’s on these days.’

‘How long are we going to have to wait?’ Gareth asked.

‘Could be some time,’ he returned. ‘We have to make special arrangements for you.’ He went over to the window and pulled back the dusty, nicotine-stained net curtains, surveying the yard as he’d surveyed the service station car park. ‘Best if you just relax and settle down.’

‘But if you gave me some answers,’ said Gareth shortly. ‘Why am I, of all people, being targeted, and what’s my sister’s involvement in all this?’

Muller bent to the kettle, checked it was boiling and then went to a cupboard, taking out a couple of mugs. He set them on the grimy worktop. ‘It’s just not my place to tell you.’

‘So you keep saying. It’s not good enough.’

‘Look, fella, it really isn’t.’ He sighed, turning and leaning with his back against the worktop, his arms folded. ‘OK, time to settle up some, I guess. The least I can do.’ His eyes looked askance as he scratched the side of his neck in thought. ‘First, I was lying; this isn’t about gold, jewellery or even drugs and the like. This goes way beyond those commodities.’

‘So I assume we’re still talking big money being involved.’

‘You wouldn’t believe how big,’ he said.

‘What’s being bought and sold?’

Muller’s eyes settled on Gareth’s questioning face. He paused, licked his lips. ‘You are.’

Gareth frowned fractionally, then laughed out loud. ‘Yeah, right, like I’m worth a small fortune! So much so someone back there wanted me dead. It doesn’t make sense.’ His smile faltered and fell away when he saw Muller was serious. ‘Come on, Muller, I’m hardly worth a thing. I have a cottage in Wales, a small but scratched collection of Bob Marley singles and a battered old 1970s Land Rover — oh, and a couple of Premium Bonds I bought way back in ’95. Your average underworld leader is unlikely to get excited over that lot.’

‘Let’s say, to the right buyer you’re worth about ten million pounds — each.’

Gareth laughed again. ‘OK, Muller, cut the fun and games, what’s all this really about? What’s the truth?’

‘The truth? Straight up?’

‘Straight up.’

‘I reckon it could easily be pushed up to fifteen million.’

Silence fell over the pair of them and any semblance of humour on Gareth’s lips faded like breath on a windowpane. ‘You’re serious…’

‘Deadly.’

Gareth plonked down on the sofa; the weakened cushion springs sagged beneath his weight. ‘Go on…’

Muller shook his head solemnly. ‘You really haven’t the faintest idea, have you? What you are, what you’re capable of.’

‘It appears not. Enlighten me.’

Muller opened his mouth to speak and then thought better of it. He turned to the boiling kettle. ‘How’d you like your coffee — strong, weak or transparent?’ He poured hot water into the mugs.

‘I’m just an ordinary guy.’ he said again.

‘Sure you are. One question: ever had a cold, Gareth?’

‘What?’

‘Ever had a cold, a touch of the flu maybe?’

‘What the hell has that got to do with anything?’

‘What about a virus of any kind? In fact, think back; when was the last time you ever got ill, the last time you went to see a doctor with your average run-of-the-mill ailment?’

Gareth thought about it. ‘I’m one of the lucky people who seem to escape catching colds, I guess.’

‘You think it’s lucky?’

‘Well, genetic, obviously. An accident of birth, that’s all. The right genes coming together. So that’s what makes me a valuable scientific wonder, is it? The man who rarely caught a cold — big deal.’

‘Do you know who your mother is, Gareth?’ he said with his back still turned to him, slopping milk into the mugs.

He was taken aback by the question and change of tack. ‘Never knew her; she dumped me in Cardiff railway station as a baby. So I get my lucky no-cold gene from her, so what? It happens.’

‘It might surprise you, but I know a man who knew your mother pretty well.’ He passed Gareth a mug of coffee. ‘I made it medium. I don’t know how you guys drink this shit like you do.’

Gareth was on his feet. ‘Who is this man? How did he know her?’