Matt Hilton - Dead Men's Harvest

He gazed around the tea shop: six tables, mismatched chairs, floral wallpaper, old black and white prints on the walls. There were no other customers so he studied the prints. The neighbourhood didn’t look that different now than it had ninety years ago: just the satellite dishes and more cars. As he looked to where the woman worked, he saw her heading over with his mug of milky coffee.

‘Have you had a chance?’

We both speak English, but it isn’t the same language at all, he thought.

At his blank look, she said, ‘The menu. Did you get a chance to read it?’

‘Uh, yeah,’ he said, tapping the menu. ‘I’ll have one of these.’

‘Sausage bap? OK, coming right up. Will there be anything else?’

Cain hadn’t realised he’d been staring at the woman’s hand. Where she’d pulled the hangnail loose, he could see a bright strip of red was showing through. He was picturing how much further he’d have to dig to find the bone. Yes, there was something else he wanted but he had to fight the urge to take it. He shook his head, lifted his milky coffee and tried not to grimace against the sickly sweet taste. As much as he’d have liked to take a bone from this woman he couldn’t afford the problems it might incur. He was here for Jennifer Telfer and must not allow his urges to control him. He concentrated on getting the coffee down.

His sausage bap arrived. Links of sausage, sliced and placed in a bun. Some sort of brown sauce had been smeared on them. It was actually delicious and he wolfed it down.

Through the windows he saw that the traffic flow had picked up. He glanced at his watch. Three thirty p.m. ‘Are the schools due to get out?’

The woman squinted at her own watch. ‘Yes.’

He approached the counter. Coming out to face him, the woman said, ‘We don’t get many Americans round here. What brings you to Longsight?’

‘The delicious sausage baps,’ he said, and smiled. He handed over a ten-pound note and got change direct from the pocket in her apron. A jar on the counter said ‘tips’. He rattled the coins into the jar. ‘Maybe they’ll bring me back another day and I can sample some other local delights.’

The woman laughed. She thought he was flirting. Let her think what she likes, Cain reflected. If she knew what he was really hinting at she would have run away screaming.

‘Well… if you need a guide, you know where to come.’

Cain winked at her. ‘Bet on it.’

‘I’ll hold you to that.’ The woman pulled her cloth from her apron, sashayed so that they bumped hips. Her laughter was throaty, but more from too many cigarettes than anything sexy. Cain allowed his hand to trail across her hip and down her lower back, as if guiding her around him. She never felt the swish of the box-cutter as he moved past her.

Later she’d note that one of the ties of her apron was much shorter than the other, and perhaps she’d reappraise her meeting with the handsome Yank, but for now Cain smiled as he pocketed his trophy. At the door he turned back. The woman was bending over his table, cocking her hip provocatively and peering doe-eyed over her shoulder. To Cain she resembled a five-buck whore. Jeez, he thought, all bets are off. Still, he offered a smile and a wave, and she grinned back, showing him the gaps in her teeth.

He left the tea shop, wondering if she could eat an apple through a birdcage without opening the door. He chuckled at the image, then let it go. There were more important things to consider. Along the roadside, the parking spaces had freed up and further down the street came the first drift of children in school uniforms. He wondered if he’d recognise John Telfer’s children when he saw them.

‘I’m in.’

Harvey confirmed my whispered message. I stood just inside the back door of the Tudor hall, peering along a narrow vestibule. Inside, the walls were white. Ancient wood along the skirting and picture rails was as dark as ebony. The floor was wood, but a runner of carpet had been laid down the middle, deadening any footfalls. I could almost smell the history embedded in the fabric of the old building. Fleetingly I wondered if this house had known bloodshed in its time in Lancashire. Had it been used as a base during the Wars of the Roses, or witnessed conflict between Roundheads and Cavaliers? Or would this be the first time it had known violent death in its six hundred years?

I took out my knife as I set off along the vestibule, timing my breathing with my steps. On my right I saw a double door that led into the large dining room. I ignored it, continued, and found myself in an entry hall near the front of the house. On my left was a stairway that switched back on itself twice where it met the landings of the upper storeys. There was a man dressed not unlike the one I’d killed outside. His suit was grey, and his shoes buffed to a bright gleam. His hair was so short that his scalp showed through at the crown. He was cleanly shaven. The hands that fiddled at the edges of a newspaper were well manicured. He was the meet-and-greet guy, but also the one who halted any unwanted visitors who made it through the gates. The Galil machine gun hanging from the arm of his chair told me so.

Before moving on him, I listened. There were the sounds of activity further to my left, floorboards creaked overhead, somewhere deeper in the house I heard a buzz of conversation but I couldn’t make out what was being said. One voice momentarily rose in volume, and I guessed that would be Kurt Hendrickson making his position known. No one other than the door guard was in close proximity. I strode across the floor. The man wasn’t hard-wired to expect an attack from within. In fact, he glanced at me, and my unfamiliar face didn’t at first register. By the time he did a double take, I was in position. I clamped my left hand over his mouth, stuck my Ka-bar under his ear and rammed upwards. I lifted him bodily out of the chair, resting his weight against my chest to stop his heels drumming on the hardwood planks. The newspaper fluttered to the floor. He died within seconds and not a sound announced my presence. I dragged the man across the hall and pushed him deep inside a closet, wiped my knife on his suit. Next I backtracked, straightening the rucked carpet and settling his chair, I slung the Galil over my shoulder; maybe I’d need it if things went to shit.

The sounds of conversation drifted to me again. The voice I’d assumed belonged to Hendrickson had grown louder, like he wasn’t a happy man. If I had my way, his day would go even further downhill. I followed the voice. The house was best described as rambling. Beyond the entrance hall was another staircase. A second vestibule — this one with low ceilings and doors barely taller than I was — led into the central portion of the house, where I guessed there’d be a kitchen: that was where the raised voice originated. I scanned the other end of the house. Someone walked along a corridor and into a room, closing the door behind them. In the brief moment I’d seen the figure, I noted that it was a woman. Ignoring her, I turned quickly down the narrow vestibule towards the source of the voice.

In my earpiece Harvey whispered, ‘Status?’

‘Two down. I’m heading to the back of the house. You think you can set up out there and cover for me if needs be?’

‘On my way,’ he said.

OK, so he wasn’t Rink, but Harvey was proving himself just fine.

I recalled the cars outside, tried to estimate the number of men inside the house. It wasn’t easy because I didn’t know how many of those cars belonged to Hendrickson and which belonged to his visitors. Basically, I had to err on the side of caution. Expect more enemies to come at me and any fewer would be a help. The corridor was like something from Through the Looking Glass, seemingly growing progressively narrower and lower of ceiling as I traversed it. It took me a moment to understand that the floor was a steady ramp towards the door at the far end; a quirk of the architecture. Doors on my right were locked. I gripped my knife loosely and went on, conscious that should anyone enter the corridor behind me then I was a sitting duck.